Gold, Black, Red
by ReaperRain
Summary: Lucien's latest contract proves considerably more hassle than he's worth. Opinions change, mind you... Lucien Lachance/OMC. ON HIATUS.
1. Chapter 1

First things first – _this is a slashfic._ That means it will contain men with men. If this squicks you, please leave now; there are plenty of Lucien/female stories out there for you to choose from. Het is not my thing, however, and thus my OC will be male.

Anyway, if you quite like slash, or at least aren't completely repelled by it, read on. I _do_ put the effort into writing good stories, so I hope you enjoy it. On with the story!

OhandbeforeIforget: Oblivion doesn't belong to me. Obviously. I'm saying it now so I don't have to repeat myself every chapter.

* * *

**Chapter One**

Swathed in midnight black and perfect silence, Lucien Lachance did not so much walk as _glide_ through the twisting passages of Echo Cave. He was here by the will of the Night Mother, having travelled a week, and only resting when he absolutely had to. There were other Speakers, _closer_ Speakers, but according to Ungolim, this was a task for Lucien only – not merely to arrange, but to fulfil.

This client had requested the very finest assassin in the Dark Brotherhood. Repeatedly, as the summoning ritual had been performed three times, with 'and send me the _best_, understood?' added to the end of the incantation. So, despite all inconveniences, Lucien was sent. Because he _was_ the best, even if he did say so himself.

_The Necromancer,_ Ungolim had told him. Not 'a', but 'The'. _Tread carefully._

He wasn't one to cut corners, so tread carefully he did. With soundless footsteps, a chameleon spell, and the aid of the darkness already flooding the place, he slipped past numerous Necromancers and their lumbering, undead servants. Not one noticed as he entered the main chamber of the cave, through the icy mist of the underground lake, to where his client, a black-robed Altmer, waited.

"At long last," Mannimarco spoke before Lucien could, voice tinged with impatience, "You _are_ the Dark Brotherhood representative, I presume?"

He rolled all his Rs, Lucien noted distantly, before inclining his head: "You presume correct. My apologies for the delay, it took some time to reach you."

"Never mind that. You are, I hope, the most capable assassin the Brotherhood could send."

Lucien gave a pleasant but oddly chilling smile, "The very best, as per your... _repeated_ request."

"That was just to make sure. Your target is a rather elusive one," the mer's tone turned irritable, "He _was_ a former student of mine, until he stole my Staff of Worms and disappeared. A gifted mage, but thieving by nature, and this is simply the last straw. I shall have to dispose of him."

Strange that a stolen item would warrant an assassination, but Lucien did not question his client's motives; "What does he look like?"

"Altmer. Dark eyes, light hair. Although I wouldn't be surprised if he's changed his appearance," Mannimarco told him, "He may be carrying the Staff of Worms with him – it's very distinctive, I'm sure you'll know it when you see it. It's also dear to me, so there is a bonus for you if you can return it, or at least discover it's whereabouts."

"It will be done," Lucien murmured, "And how much for this task?"

"Bonus excluded, I name four thousand septims as a fair price."

"Four thousand?" One of Lucien's eyebrows rose elegantly, "A handsome fee. Is this student of yours a dangerous one?"

"Dangerous? No. Simply impossible to find," Mannimarco grimaced, "Every Necromancer under my command has been looking for him, and they've turned up nothing, not even a corpse. He _is_ alive, though, I'm quite sure of that," he paused, "An ordinary killer will not suffice, you understand. What I require... is a _hunter_."

Lucien nodded, "Rest assured, he will be found. Assuming he hasn't changed it, is there a name I can go by?"

"Ah yes, I almost forgot," Mannimarco gave a grim half-smile, "Caelan."

_Caelan._

It wasn't much to go on. Even with Brotherhood members all over Cyrodil asking around on his behalf, the name turned up nothing, and the description was simply too vague to go by. For all Lucien knew, his target may have fled to Morrowind or likewise, could have changed his name, his appearance, his identity – become a new person and let the old one simply... 'disappear'. And Lucien knew from first-hand experience how easy that was to do.

* * *

After a week or two of solid searching, Lucien was starting to think that four thousand septims wasn't worth it.

He'd even stopped by Bravil to ask the Night Mother for aid, but her being the bride of Sithis, of _chaos_, he shouldn't have expected a straight answer. All he got was a cryptic message:

"_Look for the person, not the identity."_

"Look for the person..." he repeated aloud for the umpteenth time in as many days, absentmindedly stroking Shadowmere's mane, and not noticing she was munching her way through this week's food supply, "The _person_, not the identity... what's the difference?"

Well, identity was who you were: name, gender, nationality. How you introduced yourself, what people knew about you, how they recognised you.

But surely 'person' meant the same thing?

"Lucien Lachance. Male. Imperial. Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood," he murmured to himself – the bandit camp he was currently staying in had been abandoned some time ago, so he had no hesitation in voicing his thoughts out loud, "Cold, calculating, ruthless. Assassin. Killer."

He paused, frowning. All true words, but there was more to him than that.

"Fond of silence," he went on, "And Surilie Brothers wine. Preferably both at once. Good at Alchemy. Likes appl- hey," he reached into his bag, only to realise Shadowmere had eaten most of his lunch. "Has a greedy horse," he added somewhat scoldingly, tapping said horse on the nose, since he knew it annoyed her.

But now he knew what the Night Mother meant, at least – there was more to someone than their identity, a name and a face. There were all their likes and dislikes, their hobbies, their habits, their quirks. The things that made up the _person_.

_So if he's a Necromancer, he'll want dark and damp conditions in which he can raise the dead- no, wait,_ he paused and shook his head, _He'll want to avoid those places in case he runs into another Necromancer..._ An exasperated sigh. He was still considering profession over personality.

_Thieving by nature... perhaps the Imperial City?_

_No. Too many people who could recognise him._

_Unless..._

"Just enough to get lost in a crowd," he smiled in self-assurance, and began to saddle Shadowmere for the long ride ahead. He knew exactly where to look.

* * *

The Imperial City. Hundreds of Mannimarco's followers probably passed through here every day, looking to buy mystical items, books and ingredients; there were probably a few masquerading in the Arcane University as well. Not a place to go if you were a Necromancer on the run, but then, Lucien wasn't looking for a Necromancer.

He was looking for a thief.

The Waterfront District was famed for its ill-bred and sticky-fingered residents. Given most were uneducated, mages were an uncommon sight; they would likely live in the pleasanter neighbourhoods, like the Talos Plaza, or the Elven Gardens. No intelligent and learned Necromancer would want to come here, to talk to the people, who were only too happy to point you in the wrong direction while they kindly relieved you of your septims.

Mind you, being an assassin gave you a certain 'don't-push-your-luck' aura, which meant the people he asked wisely decided to co-operate. As it turned out, there _was_ an Altmer in the area, one apparently down on his luck if he'd been reduced to living in a shack. And one who carried absolutely nothing of value on him, several pickpockets had complained.

So he had found his target. In a place no mage – Altmer, no less – would be caught dead, and yet somewhere so ridiculously obvious that no-one would think to look there.

_Sneaky elf. No wonder you haven't been caught._

Once directed to the shack, it was a simple matter of breaking in. What he hadn't expected to find, however, was piles upon piles of books stacked up to the ceiling, filling the entire room. Mostly arcane volumes, further reassurance that this was indeed the correct house.

"Caelan?" Not that he made a habit of conversing with his targets, but he couldn't really sneak up on him when he had a maze of books to navigate.

"That depends," came the sly – albeit paper-muffled – answer from an indeterminate location, "Who's asking?"

_Really now,_ Lucien thought. He was an assassin, and yet people never expected him to be a liar as well; "I'm a neighbour, just moved in. I thought I'd come over and introduce myself."

"Oh? In that case, I'm not Caelan. Caelan? Who's that? Never heard of him."

Lucien smirked, dropping his pretence; "That was abysmal. You didn't even try."

"Neither did you," was the snippy reply, which then softened, "Well... that was quite a good Waterfront accent you put on. But you enunciate too well to live here. I've spent the last few days trying to decipher what everyone's saying."

"So you _are_ Caelan, then?"

"Subject to change, according to askers intentions. Who and what are you, precisely? A Necromancer?"

Evidently, he'd just have to be upfront about it. Besides, it wasn't like his target had anywhere to run. "I'm from the Dark Brotherhood."

"Dark Brotherhood?" The voice suddenly perked up, and from around a corner skidded the Altmer – with, to Lucien's confusion, a rather hopeful expression on his face, "Are you here to kill me?"

Scratch that, 'confusion' wasn't strong enough; "... Yes?"

"I was hoping one would come along eventually," Caelan nodded, looking pleased, before waving Lucien along, "Follow, follow. There's not nearly enough room here, and I'd rather the books didn't get damaged."

_... What?_

Lucien had encountered a lack of resistance in his marks before; most put up a fight, but there were some who knew they could not escape the Brotherhood, and quietly accepted their fate. He had not, however, met one who seemed thrilled to bits at his presence. Which made him wonder if he were being led into some sort of trap, perhaps to end up as a Necromancer's experiment. He kept his hand on the hilt of his dagger, just in case.

Of course, it was difficult to wield a dagger in such close quarters – Caelan, being of a rather slim frame, moved easily between the narrow corridors of books, but Lucien had more difficulty. By the time he had eased his way through and into the clearing, Caelan was sat waiting by the bed, drumming his fingers against the rickety frame.

"So you actually want me to kill you?"

"I want you to _try,_" there was an odd glint in Caelan's eyes that Lucien didn't like, or trust, "I don't think you'll be successful, mind. But as I recall, your contract doesn't end until I'm dead and gone."

He didn't bother trying to decipher the cryptic words; mind games were a distraction, he knew – he used them himself often enough. Instead he withdrew his dagger, and trailed it lightly over the soft skin of the Altmer's throat, enough to sting but not draw blood. If Caelan had been putting on a brave front, it would have crumbled, but there was only an expectant calm in the dark eyes. The boy was genuinely unafraid to die.

"Oh, and one more thing," Lucien murmured, and dug the knife in a little, just enough to cause a thin trickle of blood, "Where did you put the Staff of Worms? Mannimarco wants it back."

"Ah... I can't return it, I'm afraid."

"You sold it on? To who?"

"I didn't sell it," Caelan smiled apologetically, "It's... oh, long story. You'll find out after you kill me."

Lucien raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask any more questions. With the swift, practised flick of his wrist, the blade cut through the jugular vein, sending a river of red down the mer's neck and collarbone to soak his robes. His eyes went unmistakably glassy, and Caelan fell back onto the bed, the blankets absorbing the sound of the impact.

_Must've thought he was invincible,_ Lucien mused, starting his search for the Staff of Worms. He couldn't see it, and there wasn't enough room for a chest or cabinet, which made him think Caelan had stashed it elsewhere – perhaps somewhere he could no longer access, given his words. It didn't matter, he supposed, since he still got his payment.

Just as he was turning to go, however, there came a strangled gasp from the bed, followed by a prominent hum of arcane power in the air. Frowning, Lucien turned around...

... And saw Caelan sitting up in the bed.

"Bother," the Altmer muttered, rubbing his now unmarked throat, "I had hoped an agent of Sithis would do the trick..."

Lucien, for one, did not like it when his targets didn't _stay_ dead – and he knew he had killed the boy without error, having delivered the exact same strike countless times before. Thus, it was with a glare and a frosty tone that he spoke: "Care to explain?"

"Ah, well, you see, funny story really-" Caelan gave a somewhat nervous laugh, but stopped stalling when the glare intensified, "I... I can't die. I mean, I _can_, but I come back."

"Yes, I have seen that. What I want to know is _why_."

"The Staff of Worms," was the explanation, "It resurrects the target for thirty seconds. Or in my case, thirty seconds after I've been killed. So I can never stay dead for any longer than that."

"Because it's in your possession?" He could see why Mannimarco wanted it back... and come to think of it, he didn't _have_ to return it, since he didn't _really_ need that bonus... "Then just relinquish it to me."

"I can't," and just as Lucien was about to ask what curse prevented him from doing so, the mer went on: "I sort of... bound it to myself. Magically, that is. And now it's gone."

_This,_ Lucien thought tiredly, _Will be a long night._


	2. Chapter 2

Wow, thanks everyone! I got a lot more reviews than I was expecting, to be honest. I'm glad none of you seem to mind slash, which is odd, given I don't recall ever seeing two men together in the game itself (but I suppose if it didn't stop me from _writing_ slash, it's not going to stop you from _reading_ it). Anyway, enjoy chapter two!

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Some time later, when the air was still black with night, and Lucien was _really_ lamenting the lack of readily-available wine, he was still trying to comprehend the situation.

"So... you bound yourself to the Staff of Worms."

"I bound the Staff to _me_," Caelan corrected insistently, "I was trying to make it conjurable, like bounds weapons or armour. That way I could just summon it instead of lugging it about everywhere – and really, it's not the most attractive-looking thing in the world-"

"In any case," Lucien interrupted, holding up a hand to silence the talkative mer, "The ritual went wrong, and the Staff disappeared completely."

"Yes. I thought I could do it, since I'm good at Conjuration – and I do mean really quite good-" at the look he received, he quickly returned to the subject, "But I seem to have... _overbound_ the Staff, as it were. It's a part of me now, as are its effects."

"Very well... how do you _un_-bind yourself?"

"I've been reading up on that," Caelan waved towards the endless stacks of books, "And... well, I don't think I _can._ Most bound items disappear after a certain amount of time, but this... doesn't. It's permanent."

Lucien shook his head resolutely, "It can't be. There is a way to undo every curse and spell gone awry."

"You're welcome to try. And, you being from the Dark Brotherhood, I was hoping you wouldn't give up until I was truly dead."

Lucien frowned; "But that's what I still don't understand – you _want_ to die? Most would give up everything and anything to obtain what is, in effect, invincibility."

Something flitted across Caelan's face for a moment; sadness, perhaps, but it was gone before Lucien could register it, "Being unable to die... it's really not as lucrative as it sounds."

He didn't offer a further explanation, and Lucien didn't ask for one. There was silence for a few more minutes, until the assassin came to his decision:

"I suppose," he said getting up, "That until I can figure out just how to kill you, I'll have to take you with me. I'd rather not have to keep visiting here every time I come up with a new plan."

"I have to leave? Why don't you just stay here?"

"Because firstly, all my resources are at my home. _Secondly_, you barely have enough room for yourself, let alone another person. And _thirdly_, the Imperial City is not a place I willingly spend my free time," too many people, too many guards. Being an Imperial himself, perhaps he should have been proud that the city watch was so vigilant, but he considered them more of an annoyance than anything else.

"Very well," Caelan also stood up, looking wistfully at all the books he would never be able to take with him, "I suppose all these will have to be taken back to the University Archives..."

Lucien raised an eyebrow; "You _stole_ all these? From the Arcane University?"

"Yes, well... I'm rather good at stealing things. It's become something of a hobby, to be honest."

"It's unusual, though. I haven't met many Altmer thieves."

Caelan looked surprisingly peeved: "I'm _half_ Altmer, I shall have you know. Just because I look like one doesn't mean I'm like all the others."

"I was merely commenting," Lucien responded coolly, ending any argument before it could begin, "And in regards to your books, we don't have time to return them all. Sell them off and be done with it. You could probably make a small fortune in the process."

The mer winced, "Sell them? What if I need them again in future?"

"Ah," that explained why he didn't make his living as a thief, "You like to hoard things."

"'Collect' is a much more pleasant term. But... yes. I did join the Thieves Guild, briefly, but didn't make too much money from it. Besides..." he scratched the back of his head sheepishly, "I got kicked out. For, ah, stealing off another member."

_Hm. I had best keep an eye on my belongings._ "Then leave the books here if you don't want to sell them. The Mages Guild may find and reclaim them anyway," he glanced around the place – as far as he could tell, Caelan had no other belongings, which meant no need to pack, "Very well, let's go."

"Wait!" When Lucien turned, an eyebrow raised, the boy looked suddenly fidgety, "... You haven't told me your name yet. I mean, I think I should know," he finished lamely.

It wasn't the first time, Lucien could recall, that a mark had asked his name. If they angrily demanded it, he never complied, and visited a quick death thereafter. But to those few who had already accepted their fate, that asked in that quiet, serene way, he would answer. Caelan, he supposed, fell into the second category.

"Lucien Lachance."

* * *

Lucien's home was quiet and well-kept, if a little sparsely furnished for Caelan's tastes. It was also rather cold, but he supposed he couldn't really complain, since Lucien had been generous enough to let him stay here.

Well... not really, since Caelan hadn't exactly been given a choice in the matter, but he _could_ have been thrown in a cell like a prisoner. The hospitality only extended so far, however; there was only one bed in the place, and Lucien had made it clear he wasn't about to give it up. Without so much as a spare bedroll lying about, Caelan had a choice of the floor, or the floor.

_Could be worse. Could be damp._

_It's uncomfortable, though._

_Could be Echo cave. Now that was damp. You needed a water breathing spell to get anywhere._

_But it's really, really quite uncomfortable._

After a few more failed attempts at looking on the bright side, he sighed and sat up, shoulders still aching from the flagstone floor. If he couldn't get to sleep, he would just have to tire himself with a walk. And he needed to map his way around Fort Farragut anyway.

The layout, he soon discovered, was simple enough, but so well-guarded that no uninvited guest would be able to reach Lucien. It was also riddled with traps, almost all of which Caelan unwittingly set off. After being caught in a fleet of arrows for approximately the fourth time, he gave up on the notion of a tranquil, soul-soothing stroll and decided to just go back to the central chamber.

Lucien was still asleep when he got back, rhythmic breathing filling the otherwise silent air. Even assassins needed to sleep, he supposed, although it was strange to see Lucien so... well, he couldn't really use the term 'peaceful'; even in rest, the man was oddly tense, his dagger still at his hip and ready to be used.

Hm... that was a rather nice dagger actually...

_Oh, I really shouldn't..._ Thieving was like good chocolate, and just as hard to resist, _Go on then. Just this once._

He advanced as silently as he could, glancing at Lucien to make sure he was still asleep. His fingertips glided over the cool metal of the handle, observing the tell-tale hum of enchantment, the delicious power residing within. Loosely grasping the dagger, he began to carefully ease it from its sheath-

One hand immediately snapped around his wrist, making him let go of the weapon. Before he could react, a second hand clamped mercilessly around his throat.

"_Don't,_" Lucien's voice was pure ice, "Steal from me."

Fingers scrabbled uselessly against the grip on his throat, and it was only when Lucien slackened his hold that Caelan could gasp: "D-didn't know you were awake."

"I woke up after you set off the first trap. That's why they're _there_," came the cold reply, "Did you really think you could snoop around my home and then attempt to _pickpocket_ me without me noticing?"

Oddly enough, Caelan abandoned all fear in favour of a thoughtful expression; "I don't know... I managed to steal off Mannimarco-"

"And look where it got you," Lucien tightened his grip again, just to bring that fear back – because people were supposed to be afraid of him, and it annoyed him that Caelan clearly _wasn't_, "Now be sensible for once, and don't try anything like that again. You will _sorely regret it_ if you do. Understood?"

"Understood," Caelan wheezed, incapable of anything more by now. Shoving him off the bed, Lucien watched dispassionately as the mer coughed and spluttered for air, his throat darkened by bruises. He'd evidently done more damage than he thought, since Caelan eventually stopped moving, that perfect stillness that could only belong to a dead man.

And when he shuddered to life half a minute later, the bruises were gone.

* * *

_Snap._

"Ow."

_Snap._

"Ow."

_Snap._

"Ow."

"Hush," Lucien scolded, moving onto the boy's ribs, which cracked easily under his careful application of pressure. He had been systematically breaking the bones all morning, under the reasoning that if Caelan was damaged _enough, _the Staff would not be able to fix all his injuries at once. So far he had been unsuccessful, because every time Caelan's body decided to give up and die – which seemed to happen quite easily – everything was healed.

The mer obediently stayed quiet. Most would be shrieking in agony at this point, but it seemed that he had died so many times by now that he was simply accustomed to the pain. It was pleasantly refreshing, actually, to hear the satisfying _crunch_ of bone, unhindered by tortured screaming.

"Do you suppose," Caelan asked suddenly, quite out of the blue, "That mudcrabs realise how weak they are?"

Lucien stopped, and just _looked_ at him. Allowing his handiwork to come undone in the process, but a question like that warranted an incredulous pause; "Why do you ask?"

A shrug, "Just curious."

"I meant," he thought to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation, but resisted the urge, "How did you arrive at this particular query?"

"Oh – well – it's just – you're breaking everything with relative ease," Caelan explained somewhat sheepishly, "Like a mudcrab. They break apart with just one hit. So then I wondered if... well, you know."

"One would assume you'd be concentrating on what's happening to you. Speaking of which..." Lucien took hold of Caelan's wrist, and snapped it like a twig, "Altmer bones are more fragile than most. That's why I can break them so easily."

"I'm _half_ Altmer," Caelan insisted, before continuing in a contemplative tone, "So... do you think they know? Mudcrabs, that is. I mean, I'm not sure if they think about anything at all, to be honest-"

"They don't," Lucien interrupted calmly, resuming his work, although most of the breakages had been healed by now, "Because if they were smart enough to realise their own weakness, they would be smart enough not to bother me when I choose to go for a lakeside walk."

"I suppose," Caelan nodded thoughtfully, "Since they always pick a fight, even though they lose every time."

There was a pause, quiet save for the sound of fingers being broken, and the sharp inhalation as Caelan briefly died, before being restored again.

"Lucien," he said, watching his mangled hand instantly repair itself, "I don't think it's working."

"No," Lucien agreed, starting again with the mer's shoulder, which he dislocated with a resounding _pop_, "But I'm enjoying myself."


	3. Chapter 3

You like Caelan.

You_ like _Caelan.

... I'm so ridiculously happy.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

"What are you doing?"

"Making a list," Lucien answered distractedly, not looking up from his desk, "Of what _doesn't_ work."

"Why, are you running out of ideas?"

"Of course not. I just want to keep track of what I've already tried."

"Ah," a brief – _too_ brief, in Lucien's opinion – silence, and then: "You could probably write a book, you know. Detailing all the ways people can die."

"I could, but I won't."

"'One Thousand Ways to Kill Someone'," Caelan continued, ignoring Lucien's answer, "Would you list it alphabetically, or in order of gruesomeness? And what if there were certain things that could kill a human, but not something like an Argonian, like drowning? Would you need a separate section?"

Lucien sighed. Caelan and silence were not two things commonly found together, he had soon discovered.

"Mind you, I suppose it'd end up being a very long book. But you could always have one per race, although you might end up repeating yourself," the mer rambled on, "Come to think of it, you'd struggle to find a publisher as well. Murder is still quite a taboo subje-"

"Caelan," Lucien snapped suddenly, "I am not going to write a book about killing people. Now be quiet and let me concentrate."

"Okay," he complied... for a few seconds, "What if-"

"Caelan."

"Yessir," Caelan mumbled. And Lucien was at last granted silence.

Until a crisp, crunching sound filled the air.

Fingers already itching to strangle the boy, Lucien looked over to where Caelan sat atop a barrel, tucking into a shiny red apple; "Those are poisonous."

"Hm? Oh, I know. I've already had two," the mer took another generous bite, "They're fast-acting too. You're good at making poison."

"Something of a hobby," was the murmured reply as Lucien went back to his writing. Thankfully, Caelan was too busy eating to talk, although the sound of the apple was rather distracting.

Then there came a loud thud as Caelan fell off the barrel, apple core still in hand. Lucien waited the thirty seconds for him to get back up again, and then wistfully added _Poison apples_ to the list.

"Poison anything, actually," he heard, and realised Caelan was looking over his shoulder, "I already tried drinking brandy laced with nightshade – you know, get drunk and die merry. Woke up half a minute later with an instant hangover. Apparently the Staff also gets rid of alcohol."

"It _is_ technically lethal," Lucien mused, adding _Alcohol_ to the list. It spanned several pages by now.

"Maybe I have to die of something unusual?" Caelan suggested, "Like eating feathers, or an overdose of juggling."

"... An overdose of juggling," Lucien said flatly.

"Well yes. That's unusual enough, isn't it?"

"'Unusual' doesn't even begin to cover it," the assassin muttered, rubbing his eyes in weary exasperation, "How on Mundus could you overdose _juggling?_"

"That would depend on what was being juggled," the elf pointed out, in a tone that suggested this was a painfully obvious fact, "Skooma, for example. I hear that's very addictive."

"If you _drink_ it, not if you _juggle_ it. And even if you could die from it, which you can't, the death would be caused by the Skooma-" there was a pause, and the realisation of _I can't believe I'm even __having this conversation_. "-Never mind. Now stop bothering me with your inane thoughts."

"Fine. I'll go and be inane elsewhere," Caelan sniffed, although he did not so much storm from the room as... _meander_. Still, he had actually left Lucien in peace for a change, which was a little unusual. Normally any attempts to hush the boy lasted but a few seconds.

It was at this point that Lucien realised his dagger was missing.

"_That little-_" the chair crashed backwards when he stood up, but he didn't even glanced at it. Stealth forgotten in his current fury, he more or less stomped after Caelan with bloody murder in his eyes. It didn't take long to find him, sat on an old box and curiously turning Lucien's dagger over in his hands.

"What did I tell you," the Speaker snarled, immediately gripping the slender throat, "About stealing from me?"

He didn't get a reply, mostly because Caelan couldn't _breathe_, let alone speak. Not one to make empty threats, Lucien didn't loosen his hold, and watched with grim satisfaction as the golden-skinned face turned a pallid grey. He watched the dark eyes roll back, heard as the frantic squeaks faded away – but kept going until he felt the pulse slow, and stop.

When everything was finally still and silent, Lucien exhaled a long, slow sigh and let go. The Altmer fell limply against his chest, eyes glassy, skin colourless. Not moving, not breathing. By all definitions, dead.

_He's light,_ he thought distantly. Corpses were heavy, ungainly things, seeming to weigh more than the person had in their recent life. But the mer could barely pass for _featherweight_, hardly there at all. He could probably carry him under one arm.

There came the standard shudder as Caelan snapped back to life. If he realised just who he was currently leaning against, he made no effort to move. And, after a brief silence, he spoke, words muffled by the black material of Lucien's robes:

"You didn't have to do that."

"I_ did_," the assassin told him without a hint of apology, "I told you not to steal from me. I gave you a fair warning. You chose to repeat your mistake anyway."

"I just wanted to look at it," came the mutter – possibly a sulk, he couldn't be sure, "I'd have given it back."

"Then you should have asked. And if I had said no, you should have accepted that," Lucien told him sternly, although opted for a lower, calmer tone when he received no reply, "I don't care if you're a thief. After all, I am much worse. But I will _not_ tolerate you stealing from me."

"... Sorry," Caelan mumbled, and pulled away from Lucien to retrieve the fallen dagger, which he handed back to him, "Won't happen again."

Lucien snatched the weapon back, and re-sheathed it at his hip; "See that it doesn't."

* * *

"Do we have to do this?"

"Yes," Lucien answered bluntly, frowning as a gash healed itself, and promptly re-cutting the newly healed skin.

"And I _have_ to be hanging upside-down?"

"It'll help the blood drain faster."

"You're sure this isn't just revenge for me borrowing your dagger?"

The Speaker pursed his lips at the term 'borrowing', not 'stealing', but chose not to comment, "If this were revenge, I would try to drag it out as long as possible. As it stands, I am busy trying to kill you, so _be quiet_."

It didn't work. It _never_ worked. "How is this any different?"

"The power of the Staff flows through your veins, and heals all damage," Lucien explained in a distracted murmur, "So perhaps if your veins are _empty_, it will no longer be able to reach your injuries. Thus, you will no longer be unkillable."

"Wow," Caelan remarked, apparently impressed, "That's an intricate theory. How did you come up with that?"

"Sheer genius." Truthfully, it was all the lengthy – albeit mostly one-sided – discussions on whether grass could feel itself being walked on, and why bees didn't just fly in a straight line. Caelan's abstract thinking was evidently contagious.

Speaking of which: "Lucien?"

"Yes?"

"If brains could talk, what accent-"

"Stop right there," Lucien said firmly, "Brains cannot talk, and I highly doubt they will ever be able to. Therefore, this conversation is utterly pointless."

"Suit yourself." Oh, if only the silence lasted more than a few seconds, "They sort of _do_ talk, though, since your brain tells you what to say."

"Caelan..." he warned.

"So in that regard, the brain speaks in the accent of the person... or is that down to the mouth?"

"_Caelan..._"

"Why do we have different accents anyway? It's quite strange, when you think about it. Who first decided to talk differently from everyone else?"

"Do you _want_ me to cut your tongue out?"

"Go ahead," the mer defiantly stuck out said tongue at Lucien, "It'll grow back."

"That gives me reason to remove it _repeatedly,_" Lucien growled, "Insufferable boy... how in Oblivion did you become Mannimarco's top student?"

Caelan grinned; "Sheer genius."

"Unlikely. He must favour Altmers."

He knew by now that would get him a reaction, and it did: "I am _half_ Altmer, thank you!"

"Why does being an Altmer bother you?" Lucien asked him, genuinely curious, "They are considered the most graceful and dignified of all the races, even by non-Altmer. Most would brag about having High Elf blood in their lineage."

"Do I look graceful and dignified to you?" Caelan challenged. Admittedly, he was hanging upside-down and covered in blood as he said this, so Lucien would have been hard-pushed to disagree. "I don't care about pride or social standing. I'm a thief, for heaven's sake, and yet everyone's always so shocked when they find out." He put on a rather strong accent, presumably meant to be Imperial, "'A _thief?_ Never mind that he raises corpses to make him breakfast, but he _steals_ things? By the Nine!'"

Uncommonly amused, Lucien gave a low, throaty chuckle; "I'm certain you're not the only Altmer thief in existence, but the others probably hide it better. And you should also know that not all Imperials worship the Nine, nor do they have such atrocious accents."

"Well _most_ do," although he didn't specify if he was referring to gods or voices, "But as I was saying, I'm not some stuffy, uptight High Elf, nor do I want to be. And since most of them are appalled at the idea of a half-breed anyway, why should I be associated with their kind? The less Altmer I have in me, the better."

Lucien smirked; "That would have been a rousing speech, were you not upside-down and bleeding all over my floor."

"And whose fault is that? Besides, the blood disappears as soon as I die. You don't even have to mop up."

"Evidently it transports itself back into your veins," the assassin observed, studying the vivid scarlet that decorated Caelan's features, and pooled beneath his suspended frame, "It even disappears from your skin... a pity. You look good covered in blood."

"I do?" The mer asked curiously.

"Mm. Gold and red is a pleasant combination. You look almost... regal."

"Oh," Caelan was quiet for a moment, "I think I look like a bloody corpse, to be honest."

"So unpoetic," Lucien muttered, and began to cut the Altmer loose.

* * *

_It's still uncomfortable._

He shifted once again, but there was no position known to man or mer that could make a stone floor bearable. And while he couldn't die, he could certainly still get aches and pains.

_Oh, this isn't going to work._ He sat up, rubbing his shoulders and his side and his hip and every other goddamn thing that hurt. He wished he could have at least salvaged a bedroll from the closest bandit camp, but Lucien had told him this was _his_ home, not Caelan's, and he wouldn't tolerate clutter.

_Clutter? Just how is a blanket clutter? Maybe he just doesn't want any evidence of guests._

Made sense, he supposed. As an assassin, having a target stay at your home probably didn't look too good. It _wasn't_ good, really, since it meant Lucien was having no luck killing him, and that didn't exactly do wonders for his reputation.

That, or Lucien was trying to kill him through deliberate sleep-deprivation, which wouldn't surprise him by this point. He certainly _felt_ like death warmed up after a week of no rest.

_And he's sleeping on a nice cosy bed two feet away from me as well. That's so cruel._

He sighed and rose to his feet. A walk was out of the question, as he had already learned, but maybe he could find something to do, a book to read, or...

_Or..._

He crept carefully over to the bed, observing the sleeping assassin; the dagger still strapped to his hip was given a coveting glance, but he resisted the urge. Not that being strangled particularly bothered him, but he didn't want to see Lucien that furious again. 'Angry' would have been a serious understatement.

No... rather he was looking longingly at something else: the empty spot beside Lucien. It was small, certainly – only a narrow bed – but being as slender as he was, he could probably fit... oh, and that mattress looked so _comfy_...

Carefully, oh so carefully, he settled his weight onto the bed, keeping an eye on Lucien all the while; although, given how lightly the man slept, if he _did_ wake up, Caelan would not have nearly enough time to get away. He lay down and curled inwards so tentatively he could have been resting on nails, and only when he had secured his place did he finally relax.

_So worth the strangling I'll get from him tomorrow..._

If luck was on his side, he would be able to wake before Lucien and creep away with none the wiser. Luck was rarely on his side, however, and he already felt as though he could sleep an age away. Certainly, it was not the most luxurious of beds, but compared to the floor it was outright _perfection_, blissfully soft and warm with the sleeping figure next to him.

Barely suppressing his sigh of contentment, Caelan closed his eyes, and slept.


	4. Chapter 4

Err...can't think of a witty introduction. On with the fic!

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Understandably, Lucien was shocked and not best pleased to find Caelan curled up to him the next morning.

"What in the name of Sithis..." he said slowly, wondering just _how_ drunk he had been last night. But wait – no – he hadn't had anything to drink. Even if he _had_, he always carefully monitored his intake, given intoxication was a state of upmost vulnerability. Besides, he could remember last night's events quite clearly, namely that he _hadn't_ had a glass of wine, despite wanting one to combat the Caelan-induced headache, but he'd been too tired and simply gone to bed.

At no point did he remember inviting Caelan to join him.

"Wake up," he growled, shaking the mer insistently when he received only a mumble, "Wake _up._"

"Noooo..." came the half-conscious reply, and Caelan only shuffled closer, "Need... mmph... pillow..."

"The pillow would like to know why an Altmer nitwit is _in his bed_."

"Half Altm-" it suddenly dawned on him that pillows did not talk, especially not in that crisp, cool voice he knew so well, "Oh."

"Oh indeed. An explanation. _Now._"

He opened his eyes at last; "I couldn't sleep."

Lucien raised an eyebrow, "I am not your Mother. Your nightmares are no reason to come sniffling into my bed-"

"Not nightmares," Caelan corrected him, "I couldn't physically sleep. That floor is too uncomfortable."

"And I made it perfectly clear that I was not going to give up my bed," he snapped, then frowned at the fact that the elf still hadn't let go, "Caelan, get off."

"You wouldn't let me have a _bedroll_, you stingy fetcher. I deserve five more minutes."

"You deserve a good strangling. Get off."

"Four more minutes?"

"No."

"Three?"

"_No._"

"Two then. Two minutes."

"So help me, if you don't let go-"

"Can I help it if you're mildly squishy? One minute."

"Stop trying my patience. And I'm not squishy."

"All humans are squishy. It's one of their greatest traits."

"You're going to let go, or I'm going to start stabbing you."

"Bother," he muttered, giving in and rolling out of the bed. Lucien calmly stood up, calmly pulled his black robe on, and then calmly slammed Caelan against the wall.

"At what point did I give you permission to crawl into bed with me?"

"I've been sleeping on the floor for a week. And I use the term 'sleeping' in the loosest sense possible, because I have _not_ slept," the elf pointed out, looking affronted, and only mildly bothered that Lucien could throw him about so easily, "I would have thought you'd anticipate it, in all honesty. What else did you expect?"

"No less from a thief," he sneered. Before Caelan could point out that a_ murderer_ had no right to look down on him, he spoke again, "Apparently I have to repeat everything I say: you are not allowed to sleep in my bed. Do it again and-"

"You'll what, kill me?" Caelan bit back, "Go ahead. I'm not afraid of death."

_I'm not afraid of __you_, was what he meant. Lucien's eyes flashed dangerously, and he elicited a startled sound when he whipped the Altmer around, shoving him roughly against the wall and hissing gutturally in his ear:

"Rest assured, I can do much worse things than kill you."

Caelan swallowed harshly, glancing down at Lucien's free hand, which hovered at his waist; not touching anything, but the threat was apparent. Wisely, he chose to remain silent until Lucien was sufficiently satisfied to let him go.

"Since you took the liberty of sleeping in my bed, you can spend today washing the sheets. Something to keep you busy while I make the potion."

Caelan turned and frowned, "I'm not diseased, you know- wait, potion? What potion?"

"You'll find out."

* * *

_Bloody uptight no-good Imperial son of a s'wit._

He hadn't been kidding about making Caelan wash the sheets. How he was supposed to clean something that wasn't dirty he didn't know, but here he was, scrubbing soap into the bedlinen while Lucien was out collecting Alchemy ingredients.

Of course, what Lucien didn't know was that Caelan was out also – at the nearby Lake Arrius, to be exact. He'd been instructed not to wash and hang the sheets outside Fort Farragut, lest he was seen; Lucien was particular about the secrecy of his home, and probably still wanted to disguise any evidence of guests. But technically speaking, he hadn't _explicitly forbidden_ Caelan from laundering some distance away.

Well, it didn't exactly matter if he got into trouble for it. With the amount of things he'd done to annoy the assassin, he was used to being strangled by now. Although...

_I can do much worse things than kill you._

He shivered a little. He had no reason to doubt Lucien's words; the man was a killer, and a sadistic one at that. Caelan was unbothered by pain – in truth, he barely felt it – but he knew full well that physical harm was not the only form of torture. Knowing that Lucien could and _would_ do such things...

Any sensible person would have run. He probably _could_ run right now, since Lucien wasn't here to give chase, and he was particularly good at being unfindable when he wanted to be. Unfortunately, being sensible was not one of his strongest traits, so he was still here, doing laundry for a psychopathic murderer.

_Eh. If he finds out I left Fort Farragut, I'll just convince him I was putting in the extra effort for his task. _Not exactly a lie, since few people would walk to the nearest lake for the sake of clean bedlinen. It was worth it though, Caelan thought as he hung a pillowcase over an improvised washing line between trees. Clear lakewater and outdoor air gave linen a uniquely _fresh_ scent that couldn't be obtained otherwise, and Caelan wanted the sheets to be just how he liked them.

He would, after all, be sleeping on them again, whether Lucien consented or not.

* * *

Watching Lucien at his Alchemy was almost mesmerising, Caelan decided.

Well, perhaps the start had been a little dull, waiting for the apparatus to heat up, etc, so he'd curiously poked the human heart on the worktable, until Lucien told him to stop. But now, in the later stages of potion-making, when the upmost delicacy was required... it made him realise why people would go through the bother of collecting ingredients and memorising their properties, although it also served to remind him he would never, ever have the patience for it.

Lucien, however, was clearly in his element, from the way he deftly handled the alchemic equipment, to the subtle tensing of his jaw as he poured liquids in exact measurement. His eyes did not bear the raw passion of an artist, nor the fierce determination of a warrior, but pure, calculated concentration.

_He looks like a scientist._

He _was_ a scientist, Caelan realised. Not merely in Alchemy – which he had always considered more science than magic anyway – but in everything. His logical understanding, his cold patience, his ruthless, methodical approach to death. Undoubtedly, there were many who saw him as a _killer_, but few who actually observed him as an academic.

Then again... the way he wielded his dagger was no less precise than the brushstrokes of a master painter. And he _did_ derive an exquisite pleasure from taking life, as Caelan had seen quite a number of times through flickering, fading vision. Murder was his art, even as he carried it out so scientifically, and every victim was his macabre masterpiece.

Funny that he should view a killer as a scientist and an artist. Most would be horrified to hear it termed as such; most considered murderers to be just that – vile takers of life, a scourge on society. Then again, he was a Necromancer, which entailed a rather casual attitude towards death. Plus, given the poor pickings of grave-robbing, Necromancy and murder often went hand in hand.

"It's finished."

"Hm?" he realised he'd been staring at Lucien's jaw for about ten minutes. He was fairly certain the assassin had noticed this, but he seemed neither flustered nor timid of the attention. Probably used to it, Caelan reasoned. He worked in the Dark Brotherhood after all, and most of them were psychopaths. Psychopaths tended to stare at people a lot.

He then wondered if he had just inadvertently called himself a psychopath.

"The poison I created," Lucien handed him a small green bottle, "Drink."

"I thought we agreed poison didn't work?"

"We agreed _some_ poison didn't work. This is different," he was told, "The poison apples show that no matter how _strong_ the poison is, it will be cleansed. But this is weaker, more diluted."

He didn't quite understand, but took the bottle anyway, "How will weaker poison do the trick?"

"Because it will kill you _slower_," Lucien looked rather pleased with his reasoning, "Much like a frog – when dropped in hot water, it will immediately jump out unscathed. But when dropped in cold water, which is then slowly heated, it will not notice, and it will die."

"So if the Staff doesn't realise I've been poisoned, it won't be able to heal me?"

"Exactly."

"Worth a shot," he shrugged and downed the bottle, wincing at the bitter taste. A pause. "Lucien, do you think frogs eat flies' legs as a delicacy-"

"Go to bed," Lucien groaned, not gracing the question with any form of discussion, "And I expect to find you dead in the morning."

* * *

The next day, Lucien was awoken by loud and off-key whistling as Caelan swept the floor.

"You're still alive?" he grumbled.

The mer paused to frown at him; "There's no need to sound so disappointed."

"I _am_ disappointed," was the brusque answer, and with a sigh, Lucien dragged himself out of bed, "I was sure that poison would kill you..."

"Oh, it did," Caelan informed him, resuming his sweeping, "In the middle of the night. Would have been very peaceful if I hadn't been revived again."

Lucien was silent for a long while, and when he eventually spoke, his voice was quiet: "I'm taking you to Cheydinhal."

"Hm? Well, you look as though you could do with a break-"

"Not for a break," the assassin snapped, "There is a Dark Brotherhood sanctuary there, and with it the family I oversee. Non-members are forbidden from the sanctuary, of course, but this is a suitable exception."

"... You've run out of ways to kill me, huh?"

"Admittedly, yes," Lucien stood up, running a hand through his dark hair, "I can't say if they'll be able to kill you, but I'm sure they will assist however they can."

Caelan nodded: "Worth a try. When do we head off?"

"The sanctuary is best approached at night." Not merely for secrecy, but because most of them preferred to sleep through the day, and he needed them all awake and present for his explanation. "We will head off at sunset. You can rest for the day, since you complained of having no sleep."

"Oh, I don't feel tired anymore," the mer smiled, though there was something rather secretive and self-assured about it, "I'm getting used to the floor. It's not so bad, really."

Lucien frowned, but said nothing.


	5. Chapter 5

By the way... given the Caelan is only half Altmer, what do people think the other half is? I haven't actually decided myself, and I'm curious to know what others think.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

"_What is the colour of Night?"_

"Sanguine, my Brother."

Caelan's already-wide eyes went even bigger as the door obediently swung open, and he was led into the sanctuary beyond. Lucien hadn't bothered to disguise the location or the password of the sanctuary, but then he had no real need to; the boy was highly unlikely to run off and inform the guards, after all.

Ocheeva was the first to greet them: "Speaker! What a pleasant surpri-" she paused when she saw he was not alone, "Is this a new Brother? I was not informed..."

"Ah, no," the mer smiled weakly, "I'm his mark, actually."

The Argonian blinked, before looking back at Lucien. "Speaker...?" she said slowly.

He sighed; "Long, _long_ story. Gather the others here, I'll explain everything."

Not five minutes later, seven extremely puzzled assassins were gathered around Lucien and a rather apprehensive Caelan. It wasn't so much the fact that they were all ruthless, efficient killers, but more their questioning stares. He wasn't used to such scrutiny.

"First of all," Lucien announced, gesturing at the elf, "This is the target of my latest contract, Caelan."

"Um, hello."

One or two murmured greetings back. Most just stared.

"Unusual as it may be, I require your assistance. He is proving somewhat... _difficult_ to kill, so I had hoped you could put your individual talents to use."

"A question if I may, Speaker?" Telaendril asked gingerly, "Why... why is he here? I mean, why isn't he trying to run away, or...?"

"Oh." He had grown so used to Caelan's enthusiasm towards his own demise that he forgot how odd it was to everyone else. "Caelan does not fear death. Rather, he welcomes it. As such, he will accept any ideas or practices to wish you put forward."

"He is suicidal?" Teinaava asked.

Inwardly, Caelan winced; "No – I mean, yes – sort of. I'm not depressed or anything, but I would rather like to... to die..." he trailed off at the blatantly confused looks he was given, "It's hard to explain. Better shown, really."

"So allow me to show," Lucien pulled the dagger from his hip, and without warning plunged it into the side of Caelan's neck. Of course the death was immediate, the elf crumpling on the spot, although Lucien was at least thoughtful enough to catch him as he fell.

"I thought you said he was difficult to kill?" Gogron frowned, looking displeased, "You could've at least let me have a swing at him."

"Watch," the Speaker instructed, and waited.

Not long after, Caelan shuddered violently, head snapping upright. His expression was not especially pleased: "You could've _warned_ me!"

He couldn't suppress a grin, "My dear boy, what would be the fun in that?"

"Excuse me," Vicente cut in politely, which was followed by the demand: "What in the name of Sithis is going on?"

"Now you see why I am having trouble," Lucien answered, discreetly pushing Caelan off of him, "He is, quite literally, unkillable."

"Unkillable? And yet you _want_ to die?" M'raaj-Dar gave a low, cruel chuckle, "Why would anyone want to give that up? Stupid Altmer."

"_Half_ Altmer!" came the immediate, heated protest, followed by a hasty explanation when everyone started staring again, "I'm only half Altmer, and I would rather not be termed as such, thank you."

This was of course, not the wisest thing to make known to M'raaj-Dar. Having found his sore spot, the Khajiit grinned maliciously: "Are you sure? You look full-Altmer to me."

"Well I'm _not_, so don't call me one!"

"Might explain why you went down so easily with that stab wound too. Altmer can't take a lot of damage."

"I'm _half-_"

"Unkillable, hm?" Vicente mused, ignoring the ongoing argument, "Who wanted him dead?"

"A Necromancer by the name of Mannimarco. As I understand it, he did not and _does_ not know of Caelan's...'circumstances'."

Vicente's eyes widened: "Mannimarco, you say?"

"You know him?"

"I know _of_ him. Came across him in a book some years back..." the vampire stroked his chin thoughtfully, "He also goes by the name 'the King of Worms'. A millennia or two old, if I'm not mistaken."

"... Ah." Never mind possessing the Staff of Worms, he had probably _created_ it. It would explain why it was so powerful.

"I had assumed he was dead, but evidently not," Vicente turned to Caelan, "How do you know him?"

"I'm– well, I _was_ a student of his."

"Necromancer, eh? Doesn't surprise me. A lot of Altmer-"

"Half Altmer! Get it right!" Caelan snapped at M'raaj-Dar.

Vicente made a 'hm' noise; "A student? You must be quite the accomplished mage."

"Oh – well – thank you," Caelan smiled, argument already forgotten, "My Alchemy is terrible – never had the patience for it – but I do pride myself on my Conjuration. I avoid summoning Daedra, mind, they're more trouble than they're worth..."

"Ah yes, I've heard that before. Tricky to control and tend to destroy everything in sight..."

Lucien glanced between the two of them, eyebrow raised.

"Oh, absolutely. Only good for a brute force assault, or as guard-distraction. Not unintelligent, though. Have you read 'Spirit of the Daedra'...?"

"I remember that! Written by the dremora, was it not? Certainly an insight into their way of thinking..."

"When you are quite done," Lucien interrupted coolly, "There is an assassination to be getting on with."

"Doesn't really feel like an _assassination_, but I'll give it a go," Gogron shrugged, wielding his trusty axe, "Here, elf, stand still so I don't miss you."

Caelan sighed, fully aware of what was about to happen, but stood still and waited.

There was a collective inhalation from all as the axe cut through skin, muscle, bone – and a cleanly-cleaved head fell to the ground, shortly followed by a lifeless body. Grunting in approval, Gogron shouldered his axe, confident the mer wouldn't be coming back.

A surprise, then, when the head disintegrated into arcane purple, simultaneously reforming at Caelan's severed neck. And within thirty seconds, he was awake and tenderly touching his throat.

"What?" Gogron blanched, before scowling, "Let me try that again..."

He didn't give Caelan time to stand up before effortlessly decapitating him once more. And once more, the elf was back within half a minute, as though nothing had happened.

"But – but – I cut your damned head off!" the Orc protested, "Hold still, I want another go..."

"So his body parts disappear once separated from him?" Vicente observed.

"Blood as well. An unfortunate side-effect; I might have used him as a constant Alchemy supply otherwise," Lucien nodded, remembering the human hearts and likewise he often used in his potions.

"So why _is_ he invincible, precisely?"

"He stole something of Mannimarco's, called 'the Staff of Worms'. Used to resurrect corpses – as they were, not as zombies. A step above regular Necromancy," the Speaker explained, "He tried to bind it but somehow managed to _absorb_ it instead. Mannimarco wants his ex-student dead and his Staff returned, but he doesn't know what's happened," a pause, "I'd rather he doesn't find out."

"Understood," Vicente murmured softly, watching Caelan's head depart his body for a sixth time, "Ah, Gogron... I think you had better stop. It doesn't appear to be working."

"I'll try. My enchanted arrows can kill anything," Telaendril volunteered, helping Caelan to his feet, "Follow me to the training room..."

"I'll come too," M'raaj-Dar added, tagging along, "I can use my magic... Altmer are weak to Destruction, as I recall."

"Half Altmer, you s'wit!"

"Fussy about the Altmer thing, isn't he?" Antoinetta commented curiously, "Funny, most of them brag about their lineage."

"He's not like most Altmer," Lucien replied, and didn't add that he wasn't like most _people_ he'd come across either.

* * *

Evidently Telaendril and M'raaj-Dar's efforts didn't work, because Caelan joined them for dinner – or breakfast, Lucien supposed, but since they all had such irregular sleep patterns, a meal was a meal regardless of name. Truthfully, having them all gathered to eat at once was a rare occurrence, but perhaps they were making an effort for their guest. He did seem to get on well with all of them, Lucien mused. Except for M'raaj-Dar, but the Khajiit enjoyed insulting everyone but his superiors, so that was no real surprise.

Speaking of which... "You know you're awfully scrawny for an Altmer."

Caelan bristled immediately: "I am _not_ an Altmer."

"Golden skin, slanted eyes, good at magic... says High Elf to me."

"Unfortunate inheritance! I'm only half High Elf, whatever you may think."

"So what's the other half, then?" Antoinetta asked before M'raaj-Dar could wind him up further.

"Well... I don't know," Caelan confessed, "I never knew my mother, and my father wouldn't speak of her. Seemed embarrassed about the whole thing, really."

"He raised you, then?"

"Until I was old enough to disown," he popped a strawberry in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, "He was never terribly happy to have me around. Not abusive, just... reluctant. I suspect I was the product of a drunk one-night stand."

Antoinetta faltered at that, "Oh... I'm sor-"

"Don't be," he interrupted with the careless wave of his hand, "I already knew he was going to do it, and I never liked him much anyway. Stuffy Altmer."

M'raaj-Dar opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by a glare from Lucien. While he was not about to prevent teasing, he got the impression Caelan would lash out if compared to his father. He hadn't seen the boy's magical aptitude demonstrated, but one did not become a top pupil of Mannimarco without good reason.

_I wonder, though... _ he thought, watching Caelan as the conversation moved on to other things, _What could the other half be?_

Not Nord, or Orc. He'd be taller for a start, and physically stronger. Plus faintly green if it were the latter choice. He couldn't be Dunmer or Redguard either, for the same colouring reasons. He wasn't even sure if Argonian and Khajiit _could_ breed outside their races.

_Imperial?_ Not likely. Not with how frail he was. Sithis, he was more brittle than most Altmer.

_Bosmer, then. Or Breton._

Hm, could be either.

He glanced again at Caelan, who was currently involved in a deep theoretical discussion with Antoinetta on why onions of all things had water breathing properties. As Caelan knew nothing about Alchemy, the words 'thingymabob' and 'whadyamacallit' turned up quite frequently.

_... He must be Breton. Surely._

That might also explain why he got on so well with Vicente, he mused, watching the vampire join the conversation. A little _too_ well, in Lucien's opinion; granted, Vicente was an amiable sort, but they were trying to _kill_ Caelan, not befriend him. He was not, after all, part of the family.

_I'll just have to remind him of that..._ The thought made him almost wince. Despite being his rank inferior, Vicente was over three hundred years older than Lucien, and not easily ordered around. A confrontation could wait, he supposed. In the meantime, he would just keep an eye on Caelan.


	6. Chapter 6

Okay, so I actually meant to update this thing earlier than usual...but then I got sidetracked and forgot...so, erm, here's your regular weekly update.

* * *

**Chapter Six**

Three days passed, and despite the best efforts of all within the sanctuary, Caelan simply could not be killed. The newest attempts included Teinaava and Ocheeva spending a full day keeping him underwater, as well as Antoinetta's habit of poisoning his food, but nothing seemed to work. Gogron, Telaendril and M'raaj-Dar continued using their respective methods (the latter with entirely too much enthusiasm, in Caelan's opinion) but to no effect. Which only left...

"Vicente," Caelan asked, causing the Breton to look up from his book, "Why haven't you tried to kill me yet? Everyone else has given it a go, but..."

Vicente smiled warmly, a somewhat odd combination with the subject matter, "In all honesty, I could do nothing that hasn't already proved unsuccessful," he paused, "Except...one thing. But I would rather not use that, unless as an absolute last resort."

"Why, is it gruesome?" the mer prodded further, "You needn't worry about that. Gogron worked his way up from my feet the other day, so I don't mind how messy-"

"It isn't messy," Vicente assured him, "But even so, I'm..._hesitant_ to visit it upon anyone, so I shall decline for now."

"If you insist," he shrugged, and glanced over Vicente's book, "What are you reading?"

"_The Wolf Queen._ An old favourite of mine. Have you...?"

"Oh, yes! Very well-written, although quite long. It's a bother to assemble all eight volumes."

"You certainly know your books," Vicente murmured, placing volume seven of _The Wolf Queen_ on the table with no need of a bookmark, "I wonder...have you ever read _The Gold Ribbon of Merit_? It's quite a rare volume."

Caelan looked thoughtful, "No, I don't think so...I recall looking for it, but it wasn't in any of the shops."

"Then you _are _fortunate," leaning across to the bookshelf, he pulled out a sizeable tome, "I have a copy right here. But-" he chuckled as Caelan took the book, eagerly opening the first page, "-You may want to save it for later."

The elf looked up, frowning; "Why?"

"Because I believe Lucien has another scheme to get you killed."

* * *

"Stand right here."

"Here?"

"_There._"

"Oh, sorry."

He glanced nervously up the small cliff, on which was a precariously-balanced boulder. Suitably out of breath from rolling said boulder into place, the Brotherhood members lay in wait to topple it over. Lucien stood at the foot of the cliff with Caelan, although comfortably out of the way.

"You know, I had hoped for a more dignified death than this."

"You, dignified?" Lucien gave a sound too elegant to be a snort, "And don't complain. You want to _stay_ dead this time, don't you?"

"Of course, but I don't see how this will do the trick."

"Because it is impossible to resurrect a pancake," the assassin stated matter-of-factly, and took a few more steps back for good measure, "Alright, on my count of three. One..."

Caelan winced, but readied himself. Being flattened was _not_ how he wanted to go, but if this was what it took, so be it.

"Two..."

Although all this talk of pancakes had gotten him rather hungry...he couldn't make them, though. Tended to get distracted and let them burnt to a crisp.

"Three..."

They were fairly tough when overcooked, actually...could probably use them as a weapon, like a throwing projectile. 'Death by pancake', heh.

"Now!"

Seven sets of hands strained against the boulder, which shifted, wobbled, and eventually fell. It landed with a deafening crash – and, although inaudible, a pained squeak from the mer beneath it.

Then silence.

Lucien approached the now-stationary boulder cautiously, the other assassins sliding down the steep cliff-side to meet him. "Caelan," he called out to the underside of the rock, "Are you dead yet?"

"...No," came the wheezed reply.

"How are your vocal chords even _working?_" Telaendril asked incredulously.

"Not sure. Much pain. Remove rock, please."

With a frustrated sigh, the Speaker gestured to Gogron and Vicente, who pushed the boulder away. There wasn't much left of the elf underneath, but even as he struggled to his feet, Lucien could see the damage healing.

Caelan looked at his rawly crimson hands and said: "I still don't think I look very regal."

The assassin smirked; "No, you look like a bloody corpse."

Caelan laughed, although all noticed the rather sad glimmer in the newly-restored eyes, "I guess nothing can kill me, huh?"

"There are still methods we haven't tried," Vicente reassured him, "And perhaps you just need to be killed a certain numbers of times before you don't re-awaken."

"Perhaps," the mer echoed, sounding decidedly devoid of hope. When he noticed Vicente's sympathetic look he forced a smile, voice enriched with fake optimism, "It's alright, I suppose. At least I'll get to read that book you gave me."

At this, Lucien raised an eyebrow, but chose not to say anything. At least, not until Caelan was out of earshot on the walk back to Cheydinhal, pointing out made-up constellations to a very confused Teinaava. Tapping Vicente's arm lightly, the two of them stayed further back to converse in hushed tones.

"You're lending out our books now?"

The vampire shrugged; "It's one of the few he hasn't read, and I thought he might enjoy it. Why, do you have a problem with that?"

_Do you have a problem?_ Lucien knew by now that Vicente never chose his words idly. He hadn't said 'is that wrong' or even 'is there _a_ problem'. As if he had done nothing wrong, but Lucien somehow _had_ for accusing him.

Sithis, he could already tell this was going to be difficult.

"He's a thief, Vicente."

"So? He lives here with us. Rather difficult to steal something you can claim partial ownership to."

"You talk of him like he's one of the family," Lucien murmured, although his tone was anything but soft, "Perhaps you forget: he is our mark. We are supposed to kill him."

"Actually, he is _your_ mark," Vicente's tone was deceptively nonchalant, "While you oversee us, the contract belongs to you and you alone...but of course, we are willing to assist our Speaker however we can." He smiled. There was very little warm about it.

"Certainly, I cannot command your opinions," Lucien agreed, all the while despising Vicente's ability to win just about any argument, "But I'm merely suggesting a less inviting approach."

The Breton gave a superficially polite nod, "I shall take your..._suggestion_ into account, Brother."

Damned vampire. Thought he'd won. But Lucien had always been loathe to let anyone else end an argument: "That would be wise. He is a marked man, after all. To get close to him would only pain you upon his death."

"Supposing he dies, that is," Vicente remarked casually, "You haven't had much success so far."

Ouch. Very ouch.

"How fortunate that I have a dedicated family behind me," Lucien spoke carefully, the accusation of _you're not showing much dedication_ hidden, but present, "I trust you will also put in your effort."

"Of course, Speaker."

Much as he detested leaving it at that, Lucien knew he would never have the final word when against Vicente Valtieri. And so, he said no more, instead glancing up at the starry sky to find the Headless Zombie constellation Caelan was currently describing to the other bewildered assassins.

* * *

That night, Caelan was awoken from his slumber by an _excruciating_ pain in his chest.

He just registered the weight of a person sitting on his stomach before cold death claimed him; when he inevitably re-awoke, the person was still there.

"Oh bugger," she sighed.

"Antoinetta," he recognised the blonde hair, although his head still swarmed with the pain, "What are – what did you do...?"

She held up heavily bloodstained hands; "I removed your heart."

"You did – what?" There was no heart in sight, so he could only assume it had disintegrated, "What made you think that would work?"

"Because the heart is the centre of everything, silly," she answered matter-of-factly, pausing when the scarlet on her hands faded from view, "Wow, even your blood disappears...you really _can't_ die, can you?"

"I fear that may be the case," no longer tired, the mer hauled himself up in his bed – not the floor, thank Sithis – and began to re-fasten the nightshirt Antoinetta had undone, "Thank you for trying, I suppose. Although it did hurt quite a bit."

There was a silence, during which Antoinetta fidgeted and hesitated before finally blurting out: "Caelan, why do you want to die so badly? You never explained...did someone hurt you? Because it goes away, you know – the sadness. You'll get over it eventually."

"It's nothing like that. I..." he trailed off, fingers still hovering over a half-done button, and gave a sigh, although not exasperated or irritated. A sad, weary sound. "...Do you want to know a secret?"

She craned her neck a little closer, "Go on."

"...I've seen The Void."

A startled gasp, "But – how – _when?_"

"When I died for the first time," he explained in low, hushed tones so no-one else could hear, "I'm not sure how I ended up there...I guess when you don't worship the Nine, or Daedric Princes, or any other type of god, you go there by default. But it _was_ the Void, I know that for certain."

"W-what was it like?"

"Beautiful," he gave a faint smile as opaque memories called out to him, fragmented recollections of what he'd seen and heard and felt, "So beautiful, you can't even begin to imagine...and I was just on the edge of it, the fringe. But when I tried to step in-" he tensed up at the memory, at the _feeling_, "I was dragged back. I'm _always_ dragged back, every time, no matter how hard I try to fight it."

"Ah. I think I understand now," she nodded, "But...why didn't you tell everyone else about this?"

"I try not to talk or think about it too much. Makes me miss it more," he answered wistfully, "The worst part is, I can _feel_ it, just out of reach – like it's on the other side of a mirror. But if I can't die, I'll never be able to go there. I could be stuck here forever, knowing I'll never find rest."

"You will," Antoinetta promised him, "Lucien will find a way to kill you. He can do anything."

"I certainly hope so," Caelan gave her a small, sad smile, "Well, thank you for listening, at any rate. I suppose I needed to tell someone after all."

"I won't gossip to the others," she climbed off his bed, and paused thoughtfully, "Well...I suppose I'd have to tell Lucien, if he demanded it. I don't like keeping secrets from him, and he can always tell if I'm lying anyway. But then, he has no reason to ask, does he?" her tone was soft, her expression reassuring, "Good night, Caelan."

"Goodnight," he waited for her to leave and settled down back in his bed, back to his dreams.

Hidden by shadows and magicks, Lucien watched in contemplative silence.


	7. Chapter 7

Here be slash. Those of you of a squeamish disposition, pretend Caelan is a girl. C'mon, it's not that hard.

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

"_How's your family?" asked Templer._

"_The same. A bit more pompous, if that's possible. It's obvious they wish I'd come back from the academy, but there's nothing much for me here. At least not until I collect my inheritance. Did you see I got a gold ribbon of merit in archery?"_

"_How could I miss it?" said Templer._

"_Oh yes, I nearly forgot that the family's put it in the Great Hall. Very ostentatiously. I suppose you can actually see it through the picture window. Silly, but I hope the peasants are impressed."

* * *

_

"Enjoying the book?"

He jumped a little at Vicente's silent and sudden approach, but gave a smile; "Yes, I've read through it twice now. I do love the ending, although you only really understand it when you go back a few pages."

"I'm glad you liked it," Vicente took the seat opposite him, and promptly held an apple of dark, glossy red, "Here. You've been reading all afternoon, you must be hungry. I noticed you prefer these over the green ones."

"Oh – well, thank you," it was odd, knowing Vicente was an assassin, a cold-blooded killer, when he was also so generous. More so over the last day or so, Caelan had noticed, although he couldn't think why; he assumed the Breton was simply fond of him. He took a bite of the apple, noting the lack of bitterness he'd come to know so well, "Not poisoned, hm?"

"You can tell a poisoned apple by the taste?" Vicente shook his head, "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. After enough of them you could probably tell the difference...but no-one else has survived eating more than one."

"They're sort of sour. But in a nice way, like lemon," Caelan took another bite, "Lucien has a whole barrel of them at his home. He wasn't best pleased when he found out I ate them all, though."

Vicente laughed, "He's not best pleased about a lot of things, I find."

"You're telling me. He's been irritable lately...I wonder why? Because he can't kill me, maybe?"

"Perhaps...ah, you finished that apple fast. Would you like another?"

"No no, I'm fine. Sithis, I'm not used to people giving me things! Normally I just have to take them."

"Actually..." Vicente paused, "I do have something to give you, after much consideration. You are aware of what I am, yes?"

"A Breton?"

"The other thing, I mean."

"Ah, _that_. I noticed – hard not to, no offence – but it didn't bother me," Caelan shrugged, "Necromancers raid crypts all the time. I've run into vampires before."

"Although I am no feral creature," he was reminded, "Like the tamer of our kind, I prefer bottled blood than drinking from my brothers and sisters."

"Ah...I noticed that too. I looked in your chest – but I didn't touch anything!" he added hastily when Vicente raised an eyebrow, "Curiosity will be the death of me...if only temporary."

"Which brings me to my original point," Vicente leaned forwards, lacing his fingers together and meeting Caelan's eyes, "Remember I told you there was one method of killing we hadn't tried yet?"

And then Caelan realised; "...Oh."

"I don't intend to...'drain you dry', as it were. I don't think that would work," the vampire told him, "I mean to pass along my dark gift, to make you as I am. It may not work, of course, but my theory is to trick the Staff into allowing a permanent death."

The mer bit his lip nervously, but said nothing. He wasn't sure _what_ to say.

"Allow me to explain my reasoning," Vicente continued, "Lucien informed me that he used a slow-acting poison, and the Staff did not remove it – simply resurrected you upon your death. By extension, it should also permit disease, until it becomes fatal. Provided you do not die in the three days Porphyric Hemophilia requires to take hold, you will become a vampire."

"Doesn't Porwhatsit Hemothingy kill the person though? I'll just be brought back."

"It _does_ kill, but it also instantly revives the person. In a death-like state, yes, but still able to function – and therefore, not dead," he informed Caelan, "And as you cannot resurrect that which is not dead, you will remain a vampire."

"Won't I still be unkillable, though?"

"Ah...perhaps," Vicente admitted, "It's my hope that, since you will be dead-but-not, the Staff will get...confused, so to speak, and won't work. If you do simply become an invincible vampire...well, there _is_ a cure for vampirism, albeit a lengthy one," he paused, "I shall only try if you wish it, of course. If you need time to decide, the offer remains open. And should you decline...I will understand."

To his surprise, Caelan shook his head and said: "I don't need time. Out of everything that's been tried, this might actually work. So, I accept."

"Very well," Vicente murmured, "But not here, or now. Visit my quarters after everyone has gone to sleep, and we will begin."

* * *

When all those present in the sanctuary had retired for the night – or day, he couldn't really tell from underground – Caelan wordlessly slipped from his bed, and began the walk towards Vicente's quarters.

His bare feet were near-silent against the floor, cold air tickling his legs, as he'd forgone the heavy under-robes he usually wore. The thinner outer-robes were still belted at the waist, however, and he had his nightshirt on, so he was sure Vicente wouldn't find it indecent. Besides, being a three hundred year-old assassin, a semi-dressed elf would be unlikely to shock him, unlike the prim Imperials or conservative Altmer.

Finally reaching his destination, Caelan found the entrance left slightly ajar, as if to welcome him in. _Probably intentional_, he thought as he slipped into the room, giving a brief smile to its occupant before shutting the doors quietly behind him. He was immediately waved over to the solid stone block Vicente somehow willingly slept on, taking a seat beside the vampire.

"Don't be nervous," Vicente reassured him, noticing the mer fidgeting with his sleeve, "I'll explain how it works, so you know exactly what's going on," he waited for Caelan to nod before continuing, "Now, Porphyric Hemophilia, better known as vampirism, requires seventy-two hours to take effect. I imagine you'll sleep through most of that, and I'll instruct the others not to bother you."

"Okay. And, um, how do we...?"

"It's transferred through the blood; adventurers catch it mostly through cuts and scrapes while fighting feral vampires. Biting does nothing, despite what you may have been told. Actually, it can be...quite..." he gestured futilely.

"Quite...?" Caelan said, curious.

"Pleasurable," Vicente finished, "For the vampire, definitely. For the person...maybe. They're usually asleep, but if awake – and willing, of course – they can also enjoy it."

"But you don't bite?"

"No. I used to, before I joined the Dark Brotherhood, but now I have it bottled. It's less satisfying, but a more reliable source of sustenance."

"Oh," Caelan fidgeted a bit then, "Does mer blood taste any good? I mean, is it different to human blood, or is it all the same?"

"I don't know," Vicente answered nonchalantly, "I've never tried it."

Caelan shrugged; "I've never been bitten before. But you only live once – or – well – okay, multiple times in my case, but what I mean is-"

"You want to experience it," Vicente laughed, although kindly, "What a curious creature you are. Doesn't the thought of being fed upon bother you?"

"Hm...how to explain? I found a man mauled to death by a bear once. Collected the chunks of him I could find and sewed them together. Had to improvise a bit with sheep parts," the elf stated matter-of-factly, "Managed to animate him on the third try, My sewing's not so good, though, so he fell apart when I was making him dance," he grinned at Vicente's somewhat stunned expression – ah, so he _could_ be shocked, "And you think _vampires_ bother me?"

"Point taken," the Breton murmured, shaking his head – to get rid of the mental image, no doubt, "So...I have your full and utter consent, yes?" he took Caelan's baring of his neck to be an agreement, "Then I suppose I should indulge myself..."

Being an accomplished mage, Caelan knew when he was being charmed, and he felt the potency of Vicente's spell long before to began to take effect. _Too strong to be regular magic,_ he noted, _A vampire ability, or- oh my, he looks good in that candlelight. Pretty hair. Pretty eyes. Pretty paper-thin skin._

"Inquisitive little mer," he heard Vicente murmur against the tender skin of his throat, lips just brushing the surface, "One day, that curiosity of yours will get you into even more trouble than it already has."

And then, he bit. And Caelan dimly remembered thinking _Hey, that hurts- ooooh..._ before all thought just about dissolved. He should've fallen ungracefully onto the stone slab by this point, but there was one arm hooked around his waist to keep him in place, while the other hand idly wandered over the rest of him. And then the cloth of his robes was being pushed back, and the open air hit his exposed thigh, but he _really_ wasn't thinking about that because of the _doesn't-feel-like-fangs_ euphoria at his neck.

"Sithis. I wish they were _all_ this willing," he heard muttered, realising Vicente was no longer feeding on him, not wanting him to stop, at all, _ever_. He was still shuddering and writhing as he was carefully laid on the stone slab, one finger still stroking up and down his bare thigh to distract him from the cut-induced sting on the palm of his hand.

Fingers interlocked with his own. He grasped back weakly, not so numbed as to miss the icy sensation of Porphyric Hemophilia entering his bloodstream. Vicente must have cut his own palm as well.

"Mer blood tastes sweeter than human blood, by the way. Must be the concentration of magic. Too sweet to be a regular thing, but it might be nice on occasion."

"Mm," Caelan answered, too tired to make any other sound. Vicente was still caressing his thigh. He rather wanted him to move to the right, but he decided to save the issue for later, after sleep.

* * *

It was only after Caelan's breathing evened out that Vicente finally took his hands away, turning around and calling out with a smirk: "Enjoy the show, Speaker?"

Lifting his Illusion magic, Lucien stepped out from the corner of the room. Glaring, Vicente noticed with some amusement.

"That was completely unnecessary."

"My activities, or your invisibility spell?"

"Don't play games, _Executioner._"

"I'm not, _Speaker,_" the vampire replied coolly, "Were you not the one who enlisted me to kill him? I was only doing as you requested."

"_That_ was not killing."

"It was. A slow process, but a method of death regardless."

"You didn't need to feed on him."

"He suggested it, and gave his full consent, if you weren't paying attention during that part. So much for voyeurism."

"Enough of this," Lucien snapped, "He is a _mark_, not a conquest to be seduced and fed upon. I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour."

"I've done it before," Vicente answered softly, dangerously so, "Charmed, fed, killed. It is my preferred method of assassination, like Gogron's axe and Telaendril's arrows. You know this, and it does not bother you. But it does _now_, because-"

Lucien knew what he was going to say, and every fibre screamed _stop him_; "No-"

"-Because it's him," the Breton finished regardless, "Not because he's your _mark_, because you do not care about them. Because he's _yours_."

_Never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis._ "I don't know what you're talking about. I care nothing for him."

"Oh? I disagree."

"If I were anything but callous towards him, would I let Gogron chop him into firewood on a daily basis?"

Vicente laughed, though it lacked any genuine mirth, "You knew that wouldn't kill him. It meant nothing to Caelan, it means nothing to you. But this..." he gestured at the sleeping mer, "It meant something to him. It means something to you."

"If you wish to believe such nonsense, fine," Lucien growled, "But then why did you go against my wishes, if you feel he is so important to me? Why openly seduce him when you knew I was there?"

"To provoke a reaction like this one," the vampire slyly answered, "Why else would you follow him here, spy on him under the guise of invisibility? You're possessive, Speaker. You never did like to share."

"I despise him," the Imperial declared flatly, "He's the single most infuriating being I've ever met."

"You have a strange way of despising people, Lucien..."

"I feel nothing but- don't touch him," he warned as Vicente's hands brushed idly against Caelan's rhythmically-moving chest. When he received a smirk, he added, "I think you've put him through enough without bothering him in his sleep also."

"Whatever you say, Brother," Vicente murmured, the smirk still present, "Perhaps you should rest...maintaining that invisibility spell seems to have tired you."

"I'm sure the charm spell you cast had a similar effect."

"No no, I feel quite rejuvenated. I shan't need more than a nap," he glanced at the currently-occupied stone slab, "I suppose I can share..."

"I'll take him back to his bed," Lucien announced, walking over, "He'll find the stone uncomfortable. He always complained about sleeping on the floor of my home."

"Of course. Do mind his robes don't fall open, the belt appears to have come undone."

With an inaudible hiss that the vampire could hear anyway, Lucien lifted the Altmer much rougher than he needed to, and more or less stormed from the room.

Vicente chuckled lowly, savouring the last of the sugar-sweet blood on his lips.


	8. Chapter 8

Watch the story go from light-hearted banter to deadly serious in one chapter!

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

"_How is he?"_

"_Fine."_

"_Has he woken up at all, or...?"_

"_A few times. Mostly to request food."_

"_Ah," rustling, movement, "You could be doing with some rest yourself, Brother. Shall I watch him for a few hours?"_

"_There's no need."_

"_Hn. You've shared the task with everyone else."_

"_Not M'raaj-Dar."_

"_He didn't want to. You can't taunt someone who's always asleep." A pause, "...You don't trust me with him."_

"_I didn't say that."_

"_You didn't need to."_

"_..."_

"_Very well, I'll leave you in peace. The three days are almost over anyhow. Good night, Speaker."

* * *

_

He awoke, and almost screamed.

So close to death, so close.

Most vampires didn't feel like this, he realised. Vicente certainly didn't, or he would have thrown himself into the sunlight long ago. No doubt they felt nearer to death than they had – colder, perhaps, distanced from the emotions and sensations of the living – but having never experienced the Beyond, they could not comprehend just how near they were.

He dragged himself upright, barely noticing how much paler his hands were, too lost in the Void. So close, so close...he could hear it calling out like a drowned lullaby, feel it whispering over his skin but never quite touching it. Perhaps these things should have been a delight, to be so much closer to the Void than he had been, but it only made him ache for more. It was too much, far too much to bear.

_I'm going to go insane._

The thought came quite calmly, the only definite, absolute truth amongst the chaos. He was going to go mad. Probably quite soon, unless he did something about it. With that in mind, he got off the bed, and began his departure from the sanctuary.

"Caelan, you're awake!" he heard someone say – possibly Antoinetta, but he couldn't be sure, "Looks like the vampirism worked- hey, where are you going?"

"To die," he murmured distractedly, moving right past her without a glance. He had to get outside, somewhere, maybe. Too dark. Needed light. Needed day.

The sun was bright, and beautiful, and burning his skin off, he realised. Good. He wanted this. He needed to leave Cheydinhal, though, because guards tended to attack vampires, and he didn't want any interference. He found a nice patch of grass to lie down on, and stared up at the afternoon sky, numbly wondering if this was going to be the last time he ever saw it.

Roughly five minutes later, something invisible sat down next to him.

"Oh, hello Lucien," he did his best to keep his voice steady, even as he was still trying not to go insane. It was silly, really, but he didn't want to break in front of him; physically was no problem, of course, but not mentally.

"Antoinetta told me you woke up," the Illusion spell was lifted, revealing the black-robed man, "She also said you walked straight past her and out of the sanctuary door."

"My apologies, I didn't mean to be rude. I needed to get outside, you see. I'm lucky it was daytime," he noticed the state of his hand, "Look, I'm melting."

"I noticed. It's not very attractive."

"You're such a charmer."

"I know. It's taking you a while to dissolve, though."

"Yes, well, I'm only partially afflicted. You have to go a few days without blood to become a full vampire, I believe, but I can't wait that long."

"Why not?"

"I'm going mad."

"You are?" Lucien raised an eyebrow, "How did that come about?"

"It would take a while to explain. My mouth may have melted by then."

"Do you feel closer to the Void?"

"You know about that?" Caelan glanced at him, then away again, "I suppose Antoinetta ended up telling you then."

Lucien paused, but decided to tell him; "Not directly. I overheard your conversation with her."

"'Overheard', or 'purposefully eavesdropped'?"

"'Purposefully stood in the corner under an invisibility spell', so the latter, I would say."

"Fetcher," Caelan said, though there was no bite to the words, "I suppose it saves me an explanation. Well yes, I'm closer to the Void. It's quite unbearable. Therefore, I would like it to end."

"I could kill you quicker than the sun."

"Don't. I'm worried it would bring me back," the mer replied, experimentally wiggling what was left of his toes, "Sunlight is harmless to the living, so the Staff may not count it as death. I'm hoping so, anyway."

"And if you come back anyway?"

"...Then I believe I shall cry. Yes, that sounds like a good plan."

"I see," Lucien paused, "You're very nonchalant, for someone going insane."

"I'm nonchalant about most things. But rest assured, I'm not making it up," he sighed, looking back up at the sky, "I wish it were sunnier. Are my ears bleeding, by the way?"

Lucien checked; "No."

"Ah. Feels like they are. Distract me with something, would you?"

"You could get Vicente to stroke your thigh again," Lucien remarked, a tad bitterly.

"Don't be silly, he'd melt too. Oh-" the elf realised, "You were there when he bit me as well."

"Invisibility spell. Ridiculously useful."

Caelan shook his head, "You saw...oh, that's embarrassing. It was supposed to be intimate, you know. You shouldn't have been watching."

"I derived no enjoyment from it, if that's what you're worried about. Even so, don't do it again."

"Hm? Why not?"

"Because he's three hundred."

A laugh; "Three hundred is quite young by mer standards. Besides, he's the same age he was three centuries ago. He looks... mid-twenties, maybe."

"He looks like a wrinkly old vampire. Though I suppose the charm spell he used numbed the effect."

"Ah now..." Caelan smiled softly, since even an idiot would understand the venomous tone, "Is it because he's a wrinkly old vampire, or because he _isn't_ a certain dark-haired Imperial assassin?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course not," he adjusted his robes slightly, "...You can stroke my thigh too, you know. I don't mind."

"No," Lucien sniffed, "It's half-melted, and I wouldn't want to anyway."

That got him another laugh, "I'm glad to have known you, Lucien. I'm quite fond of you, you know."

The Speaker raised an eyebrow; "What's this, a last-minute love confession?"

"Oblivion, no. I'm entirely too unpoetic for that sort of thing," he hummed thoughtfully, "I'm fond of Vicente too, of course, and Antoinetta. All of them...I shall miss them terribly. Oh, except that idiot Khajiit, but he doesn't count. "

"You know, this may not actually kill you," Lucien pointed out.

"Sshh, you're ruining my moment. I don't have long left now, I can feel my insides melting."

"That's nice to know."

"Please, as if that fazes you. I remember the human heart you kept on your worktable."

"The one you wouldn't stop prodding? You ruined it, by the way. I'll need to get a new one."

"Can't be that hard to replace. I hear there are thousands just lying about, especially in the Imperial City." As he spoke, his voice got fainter, breathing more shallow, eyelids slowly slipping shut, "Ah...last words...should've been more dramatic..."

With that, he stopped.

"Caelan?" Lucien asked carefully, and again when he received no reply, "Caelan?"

The body was still dissolving, but evidently dead. Sighing, the Speaker leaned back and gazed into the daylight sky, endless blue and strewn with clouds; what with remaining underground in the sanctuary, it had been a while since he had last seen it.

This tranquil and picturesque moment was ruined, however, when Caelan shuddered back to life.

"Oh for the love of Sithis!"

* * *

The door to the sanctuary opened, and Vicente glanced over to see Lucien step through.

"Speaker-" he began,

But stopped as he saw Caelan, distinctly golden instead of pale – and looking somewhat strained, as though forcing himself to maintain his composure. He then walked briskly towards Ocheeva's quarters and had a few words with the resident, who found herself ushered out of the doors as they closed behind her.

"Lucien, what in the name of Oblivion..."

"He needs some time alone," the Speaker told her, "You'll get your room back soon enough. It just happens to offer the most privacy."

"So what happened?" Vicente asked, "Did the vampirism not take?"

"He became a vampire, albeit briefly. After dying in the sun, however, he was revived once again."

"But not as a vampire," the Breton mused thoughtfully, "I had assumed the Staff restored him to his state before death – thus him being _undead_, it would not know to resurrect him. But if he was brought back fully alive..."

"I imagine it restores him to his state when he bound the Staff," Lucien said, "Which explains why, even when mutilated, he returns without injury."

"But Speaker..." Ocheeva frowned, "Would that not make him immortal as well as invincible? Even if he let himself grow old and die, he would be brought back as young as he is now."

"I hadn't considered that...but you're right, yes. No matter what the circumstances are, he cannot and _will_ not die."

* * *

From Ocheeva's room, Caelan leaned against the cold stone wall and slowly descended to the floor, ignoring the roughness against his back.

_I can't die._

Lucien had evidently forgotten about Elves having superior hearing. He'd caught every word.

_I can't die..._

He would always remain as he was. Even if he somehow waited out the centuries it would take to die of natural causes, he would be reborn like this, into an eternal youth.

How many mages had strived for this? How many Necromancers had sacrificed themselves and countless others for immortality, no matter how flawed and monstrous? But then, how many of them have seen what he'd seen, felt what he'd felt...? If they could even glimpse what lay beyond, they would give anything and everything to pass over.

"He truly _is_ unkillable."

_But I'll never be able to go there..._

"Speaker...you understand what this means, don't you? If the others of the Black Hand find out..."

_I'll never find peace._

"I know. They've already started asking questions about the contract. I told them he keeps eluding me."

_I'll remain on the mortal plane...forever. Without end or respite._

"Well it's not exactly a lie...so what are we going to do?"

"Un-bind the Staff, of course."

_Un-bind the Staff?_

"I'm not sure that's even possible..."

"What else can we do? Were we unguided assassins, I could fake his death and be done with it, but that's out of the question. There is no deceiving the Night Mother."

"We'll start with the Mages Guild, then. But we'll have to network on our own, if we don't want the other Speakers to find out..."

"It can still be done. It _has_ to be done, or he'll always come back. And if I'm unable to fulfil the contract..."

"It won't come to that, Brother. We'll make sure of it."

"My thanks, Ocheeva...Vicente, what's wrong?"

"Ah...I do believe Caelan has just started crying. You are aware he heard all of this, yes?"

_Damn vampires. Forgot they have superior hearing as well, _Caelan thought with a bitter smile, and bit into the material of his robes to better hide his sob-shuddering breaths.


	9. Chapter 9

This first passage wrecked havoc on my spellchecker...

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

"Flyyyin'...flyyin' in the skyyy...cliff racer flies SOOO HIIIGH..."

"That – that was beautiful," Caelan croaked, taking another swig from his bottle of cheap wine. Alcohol provided only a temporary respite from his gloomy situation, he knew, but it seemed to work well enough for the man he was drinking with; "Y'should be n'opera singer..."

"I would," Aldos Othran answered with a similar slur, "But m'too busy bein' an alcahow – alcawho – drunkard."

"Be a drunk n'opera-" he paused, "-Opera singer. People'd love it. Y'got the good looks an' everything."

"You reckon sho...?"

"I reckon sho," Caelan agreed, nodding, "Why, if I could feel my legs, I'd come over there an' – an' – _ravish_ you here an' now."

Aldos made a sound that should have been 'psh', but came out entirely wrong; "I have a _wife_-" he stopped and suddenly looked crestfallen, "Oh, wait. Not anymore."

"Ah, don't pull that face," Caelan said comfortingly, in a uniquely drunk manner, "I could bring'er back, if you wanted. She might be a bit...rotting, mind."

The Dunmer sniffed and hiccuped: "Can't."

"Why not?"

"The bandits didn't leave enough of her," he trembled, and hastily downed the rest of his mead, "I need 'nother drink..."

"Here," Caelan offered his, since the other elf clearly needed it more, "I've had 'nuff anyway. Still gotta find my way back to the san...uh..." alas, intoxication and quick thinking did not go hand in hand, "...Hotel," he finished after far too long.

Thankfully, Aldos was too drunk to suspect anything, or even really pay attention to it, "Sh-say..." he spoke after some time, "...Y'never told me why you're drinkin' s'much as I am. What's your story?"

Caelan tried to answer, hiccuped instead, and tried again: "I can't die."

"Ehh? Can't what?"

"_Die._"

"Die? Me? You s'wit! I'll show you..."

"No no no," the Altmer hushed him as he fumbled for his dagger, "I want _me_ to die. But I can't. M'cursed, y'see."

"You...can't die?" Aldos repeated, looking confused – moreso than usual, "Isn't that a _good_ thing?"

"Not really," Caelan shook his head, "If y'can imagine everything you've ever wanted, and everyone you've ever lost, all waitin' in front of you...you'd run towards 'em, right?" the other mer nodded, "But now imagine y'can't reach 'em, no matter how hard you try. An' you'll never be with 'em, ever, because you're not allowed t'find peace. S'what it's like."

"Y-you mean..." the red eyes were wide, and his voice was so fearful it could have belonged to a child, "I'll never see Noveni again...?"

"No no – _you_ will, 'cause you're not cursed. But I won't."

"...Why would you want t'see my wife? If you've touched her, damn you-"

"Ah no, you've forgotten again," Caelan corrected him gently, "M'just sayin', that's what it's _like_. Like never seein' my wife again."

"...You have a _wife?_"

"A wife? Me?" he laughed, although it emerged as an inelegant gigglesnort, "Dagunes Mehron, no! Never been that int'rested in women, truthfully..." he tried to tap his chin thoughtfully, missed, and poked himself in the eye instead, "Never been that int'rested in _anyone_...ow...'cept one person, I think."

"Who'sat, then?"

"Dark-haired bloke. Imperial, s'far as I can tell."

"A _human?_" Aldos wrinkled his nose, "Whaddya want a human for? Dead 'fore you know it. Too squishy as well."

"Their squishiness has many merits," Caelan insisted, "An' he's got that growly Imperial voice as well, always liked that. Suits him 'specially, since he's an assass – uh, I mean – assass – ambassador," he corrected with some difficulty.

"Ambassador of Assass, y'say?" the Dunmer echoed in wonderment, "Never heard of there, but it sounds important. What're you doin', hangin' around with drunkards? S'a disgrace..."

"M'sure he won't mind," Caelan smiled ruefully, and struggled to his feet, "Suppose I should get back to the san- hotel...see you 'round, Aldos."

Aldos only raised the wine bottle and hiccuped before launching into another round of: "Flyyyin, flyyin' in the skyyy..."

* * *

"Un-bind the Staff?" Telaendril frowned, "Can that even be done?"

"At the moment, we have no other option," Lucien sighed, "Of everyone here, you are the most adept at subterfuge, so I'm sending you over to Chorrol; ask around and try not to draw too much attention to yourself. M'raaj-Dar will be investigating Leyawiin, reluctant as he is. I can't send out more than two without drawing the attention of others."

"But..." Antoinetta interjected, puzzled, "Why not just take him back to Mannimarco? If he made the Staff, he might know how to un-bind it-"

"_No._"

She blinked; "No?"

"To return Caelan to Mannimarco would be an admission of defeat, that Lucien can neither kill his target nor retrieve the Staff of Worms – in short, he would forfeit the contract," Vicente explained to her, looking troubled, "In all its history, the Brotherhood has never been outright _unable_ to fulfil a request."

"Ah," Telaendril realised, "You don't want to be our first failure."

"I _won't_ be," Lucien's replied firmly, "Besides, if I don't complete the contract...well, you know the penalty."

"Huh? What penalty?"

"An assassin who cannot fulfil a contract – _any_ contract – is essentially useless," said Vicente, "Even with these..._special_ circumstances, Lucien could be removed from service."

"W-what? No!"

"Ungolim wouldn't let that happen, would he? If the situation were explained..."

"He may not have a choice," the Speaker declared, lacing his fingers together – casual as his posture was, there was no disguising the weariness in his yes, "I have more than a few rivals in the Brotherhood, people who would jump at the chance to get me thrown out. Even with Ungolim's understanding, he cannot ignore the plight of his Brothers. The majority vote counts."

"Which is why this needs to stay secret. If someone – say, another Speaker – gets word of this, they could easily spread it around the Brotherhood," Vicente agreed, "Others could be led to believe Lucien cannot kill his target on account of _his_ abilities, not Caelan's. And with Lucien losing all credibility and most of the Brotherhood convinced he is a failure, we'd end up with..."

"...A majority vote," Antoinetta finished grimly.

"Precisely," Lucien nodded, "A nonchalant front _must_ be maintained – if asked, you know nothing about the contract. And under _no_ circumstances tell them Caelan is staying here, understood?"

Telaendril bit her lower lip nervously; "I don't like deceiving the Listener..."

"But these are hardly normal circumstances," Vicente reminded her, "It's not so much _Ungolim_ we have to worry about as the rest of the Black Hand...oh?"

"What is it?"

"I thought I heard something," the vampire cautiously rose to his feet, "Someone fell over upstairs."

"We've had homeless types stay in the abandoned house before," Antoinetta shrugged, "They leave soon enough. The door has a de-moralising spell on it, I think."

"They might be too inebriated to feel it..."

"They're drunk? How can you tell?"

"Staggering footsteps. Frequent pauses, probably leaning against the walls for stability," he cocked an ear, and waited, "Coming down to the basement...probably seen the door by now. Not running away, though. One of ours?"

"There's no-one here stupid enough to go out and get drunk," Lucien frowned, then realised who it might be, "Except..."

* * *

"Shan-Sanguh_ween_."

"_Incorrect."_

"Ah, c'mon! I'm sure I got it right that time..." Caelan slurred at the door, no longer fazed by its menacing crimson glow, or possibly too drunk to notice, "Sangin?"

"_Incorrect."_

"Sangull?"

"_Incorrect..."_ he didn't know doors could sound exasperated.

"Sandwich?"

"_Oh for Sithis' sake,"_ the door snapped at last, _"Just get inside, you pitiful Altmer."_

"_Half_ Altmer, I shall he-have you know-" unfortunately the door, which he had been leaning against for support, chose this moment to open. He staggered inside, and might have even regained his balance, had he not tripped over his own robes. Flailing being no help whatsoever, he landed quite ungracefully face-first into the stone floor.

"Oh dear," he heard giggled, "He's very drunk, isn't he?"

With some difficulty he looked up, and realised there were four Brotherhood members standing there, though his vision was not terribly reliable. Antoinetta seemed to find it funny, even the others were mildly amused. Lucien, on the other hand, was not.

"_Paralytic_ would be a more accurate term," he commented, with a tone to match the disdain on his face, "You look ridiculous."

"S'good to know," Caelan mumbled, slowly picking himself up from the floor and squinting at Lucien – the wrong one, as he was currently seeing double, "Who're you again...?"

The Speaker merely shook his head, the short declaration of "Pathetic," as he marched over. Before anyone else could speak he took hold of the mer's fragile neck, and snapped it in one swift, brutal movement.

Even the watching assassins were a little unsettled by the action; "Was that really necessary, Brother...?" Telaendril asked quietly.

"It'll sober him up," Lucien answered, tone sharp, unapologetic. He let Caelan drop to the floor and tapped his foot impatiently until the thirty seconds had passed.

When Caelan _did_ come back, it was not with the usual gasp, but with a low and undoubtedly hangover-stricken groan of, "Whyyyy..."

"Because you got stupidly drunk and made a fool out of yourself."

"That did _not_ warrant a broken neck," the mer argued, having still not lifted his head from the floor, although he had curled inwards in a pained fashion, "Damned hangover...you could have let me sleep the alcohol off, at least."

"It's your own fault for getting into such a state. I'm surprised you found your way back here at all."

"Yes, well, there was some trial and error..." he muttered, although not loud enough for Lucien to hear, "But that was the point! I got that drunk for a reason."

"What, to drown your sorrows?" the assassin raised an eyebrow incredulously, "Yes, because being invincible is such a tormented fate. The world feels your pain, I'm sure."

At that, Caelan snapped upright – to Lucien's surprise, he looked genuinely furious; "_That,_" he spat with a venom no-one believed him capable of, "Is half the reason I chose to get drunk: people who don't understand that being unkillable is _no fun whatsoever._ And since you were polite enough to listen in on all my conversations, you should know exactly why I want to die," he got to his feet, swaying somewhat from the hangover, but it did nothing to lessen the intensity of his glare, "I'd have thought I could count on you to comprehend, at least."

"What I _comprehend_ is that you spend entirely too much time feeling sorry for yourself. It's your own fault you even ended up this way."

"Of course," Caelan answered bitterly, shifting his gaze to the floor, and yet not looking at it at all, "Of course. How could I have trusted you to know? You don't understand, you _can't._ Just like everyone else."

There was silence for a few moments, until the Altmer spoke again:

"Vicente...can I sleep in your room tonight?"

"Of co-"

"No," Lucien interrupted coldly.

Caelan glared at him, "I don't believe I asked _you._"

"I am the one in charge of this sanctuary," the Speaker told him, voice glacial, eyes ablaze, "And you will sleep right here, on the floor. If you leave this spot, I'm going to tie you up with barbed wire and leave you to starve. Have I made myself clear?"

"...Crystal," Caelan muttered darkly, sitting back down on the floor.

"Good. You can remain there until I collect you in the morning," he turned and began to walk away, "And perhaps your childish tantrum will be over by then."

Caelan said nothing, did nothing – not even glance up as Lucien left the room, and the other assassins hesitantly followed him.


	10. Chapter 10

By the way...a while back, one of you asked about Caelan fan art...well, I drew some for you! Okay, not much, but it's something, right? It's floating around DeviantART somewhere, follow the homepage link on my profile and you'll find it eventually.

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

"Caelan?"

_Stupid bloody ogre-faced Imperial. Don't know what I ever saw in him. Thinks I'm his to command, does he? I should sleep with every man in Cheydinhal, just to see his reaction._

"Caelan? Are you asleep?"

_He'd probably kill them all, mind. Wouldn't put it past him. That's what I get for consorting with assassins...Dark Brotherhood, no less. Sanity would be too much to ask for, I suppose._

"I...I guess I'll just go then..."

_Then again, he wouldn't be nearly as interesting if he were sane._

"Antoinetta," Caelan called out before she could leave the room, "I'm still awake. What did you want?"

"I just came to talk," she went back to him, taking a seat on the floor, "I'm glad you stayed. Vicente was worried you would disobey Lucien."

"I _should,_" the mer grumbled, dragging himself upright and ignoring the protest of an aching shoulder, "Just to spite him. He needs reminding that he doesn't own me."

"Don't," Antoinetta pleaded desperately, "Please, he's angry enough as it is. I'm sure he didn't mean to treat you that harshly, he's just...irritable, that's all."

"There's quite a leap between 'irritable' and 'overly-controlling psychotic bastard', Antoinetta."

"He's not-" she protested immediately, but stopped when she concluded that the statement was mostly true, "It's a bad time for him right now. He's under pressure, and he's taking it out on you."

"Under pressure from _what_, precisely? It had better be downright _crushing_ to justify all this."

"It is," she insisted, "It's because – well, because he can't kill you. Only the other Speakers have started asking questions. They want to know why he hasn't completed the contract."

"I fail to see how this counts as a catastrophe."

"_Because_, an assassin who can't fulfil a contract is no use to the Brotherhood. Lucien could be...he could be thrown out altogether!"

_Well this is a new development._ He was shocked, of course – he hadn't realised the consequences were so dire – but bitterness and anger left him without sympathy. And so he folded his arms and looked away, childishly haughty.

"Good. I hope he _does_ get thrown out."

"How can you say that?" Antoinetta gasped, "He's our _Speaker!_ He takes care of us!"

"He's _your_ Speaker. And I feel thoroughly un-cared for," Caelan sniffed, "I'm not part of the family, all the more reason why he has no authority over me. Even if he _did_ carry out his threats, it wouldn't matter; if he tried to starve me, I could just kill myself, and I wouldn't be hungry when I came back- Antoinetta?" he stopped when he saw the Breton girl's expression, much akin to a kicked puppy, "What is it?"

"You _are_ part of the family," she looked as though she were about to cry, "Even if you're not an assassin, you still live here with us, eat with us, talk with us. And we're all trying to help you – help kill you, but still – that's what families do, isn't it?"

A guilty silence followed. He didn't much feel like ranting about mistreatment anymore.

"You were the one who bound the staff," Antoinetta said quietly, "But Lucien has to suffer the consequences. You _know_ that isn't fair."

"No, it isn't," the mer admitted, then added hesitantly: "...I didn't mean what I said. I don't really want to see him thrown out. He's just...argh, frustrating. I don't know whether to love him or hate him at times."

She looked up, frowning; "_Love_ him?"

"Antoinetta," came the stern, authoritative tone.

Antoinetta caught sight of Lucien at the door, and made a sound only describable as a squeak before dashing to the training room. Caelan was not so fearful, and gave the Speaker his best glare as he was approached.

"She was only trying to convince me not to hold a grudge. Besides, you didn't say I couldn't have visitors. Don't punish her."

Lucien arched one eyebrow in perfect elegance, "And on what authority, pray tell, do you dictate how I treat my assassins?"

"And on what authority, _pray tell_, do you order me about when I'm not your rank inferior?"

"I...cannot," he confessed, although he seemed reluctant to do so, as if it damaged his pride, "Vicente has been having words...namely the word 'hypocrite' for reminding him you are not family, and yet treating you as such. Inclined as I am to protest, his logic outweighs my own. I cannot command you."

The short version was: _I lost another argument against that damn vampire._ Caelan grinned.

"So I can actually go where I please now?"

"...Yes," Lucien muttered, and handed the elf an apple he had brought along, "Here. It's poisoned, but apparently you like them that way, given you ate my supply; M'raaj-Dar left a few behind. Consider it a peace offering."

Caelan looked incredulously at Lucien, then at the apple, then back at Lucien again; "Will you make up your mind?"

The eyebrow rose again, "Excuse me?"

"This! One minute you're a volatile fetcher, then suddenly you start being – well, nice isn't the word, but-" he gestured uselessly for a few minutes before giving up altogether and saying: "Stop confusing me and _choose._ Are you going to be a likeable charmer, or a miserable bastard?"

Lucien smirked, "A likeable bastard."

"Now damnit, I _knew_ you were going to say that," Caelan grumbled, but took the apple, "Fine, fine, I accept...but no more barbed wire threats. I _do_ have the right to get drunk, you know."

"You do, but that doesn't make it acceptable behaviour. Why would you let yourself get into such a state?"

Caelan went quiet, staring down at the claret-red apple in his hands, "...I just wanted to forget. If only for a little while."

Lucien sighed and sat down next to him, "Is it that bad? I worship Sithis, I know of his perfection...but while I await the day I can stand beside him, that doesn't mean I'm in a hurry to do so."

"But you _will_ die, sooner or later," the mer pointed out, "I can feel the Void – maybe not Sithis himself, but his domain – as though it's calling out to me. I _should_ be there, but I'm not. I'm stuck here, in a world I don't belong to."

"If you wish to forget about the Beyond, then you need to focus more on _this_ world, and avoid comparing them," Lucien reasoned, "Perhaps you just don't have enough to live for."

"You've got a point," he had no family, no spouse, no lifelong ambition or project to keep him anchored to this world. Truly, there was nothing for him here, "But then how do I- wait, hold on, why are _you_ telling me this? Aren't you trying to kill me?"

The assassin shrugged, "True enough," and promptly stabbed him.

"That wasn't an invitation!" Caelan fumed as soon as he was revived, "Sithis, can you at least _tell_ me when you're going to do that?"

"Sithis isn't going to tell you anything, and I'm certainly not. What would be the fun in that?"

"You're such a-"

"-Likeable bastard?" Lucien guessed with a grin.

"Yes," Caelan agreed, taking his first bite from the apple, "Definitely."

* * *

All was peaceful for a few days, until Antoinetta came running into the living quarters with such fear and panic on her face that Caelan immediately sat up.

"Caelan," she whispered desperately, "_Hide!_"

"Hide? From what-"

"No time! Just go! Under my bed!"

He might've questioned her further, but the terror on her face was so very _real_ that he did as he was told. He watched the assassin hurriedly smooth her hair down, taking deep breaths to calm herself before giving her brief explanation:

"_Arquen._ Don't let her see you."

_Who–? What–? _Antoinetta grabbed a book, settled herself at the dining table and proceeded to feign reading, ignoring Caelan completely. Still clueless as to what was going on, he waited until he heard approaching voices:

"-You never mentioned you would be paying a visit, Arquen."

"I was merely passing through. Odd that you should be here, though. You tend to stay in Fort Farragut."

"I like to see my family on occasion."

"Hm. Shouldn't you be chasing your contract? The one who keeps eluding you so skilfully?"

Caelan only just stifled his sharp inhalation; _Oblivion, she's a Speaker. I understand now._

"I have no leads, currently. I fear he may have escaped to Morrowind."

"Then you'll just have to chase him to Morrowind, won't you? We can't let a contract go unfulfilled."

"I understand that, Arquen. Ah – to the living quarters so soon? You haven't greeted Gogron yet."

"I can greet him later, Lucien. You wouldn't deny a Sister food and rest now...would you?" the tone left no room for argument.

"...Of course not. Help yourself."

The doors opened, and he saw just who he was hiding from.

High Elf. He could tell from here, even though her face was mostly obscured by her black hood, and the robe that matched Lucien's – the mark of the Black Hand. She held herself with the grace and pride only an Altmer could manage, serene to the point of unearthly. And yet...

_She's looking for something._

Her eyes were sweeping the room, calm but somehow calculating. 'Passing through'? Not likely. She had a purpose in being here.

"Speaker!" Antoinetta's voice was saturated in surprise – almost too much for it to sound genuine, he thought with a wince. Lucien evidently shared his sentiments, given the slight shake of his head, although he seemed relieved that she had at least managed to hide the mer, "I didn't know you were coming to see us..."

"A pleasant surprise, I hope," she glanced over at the book Antoinetta was pretending to be half-way through, "Enjoying the story?"

"U-um yes, it's very interesting."

"It must be well-written then, to make such a dull subject exciting," Arquen responded coolly, "I didn't know you were into Argonian accountancy."

She knew. There was absolutely no doubt in Caelan's mind that she knew she was being lied to. Regardless of Antoinetta's stuttering fumble for a reply, she wandered over to the table, nonchalantly checking the cupboards as she did so. Looking for _him_, he was sure.

"Is something the matter, Sister?" Lucien asked, careful not to sound accusing.

If it was an attempt to distract her, it didn't work, as she continued to study the room and its contents; "Nothing, just checking on your food supply...bountiful as ever. You certainly spoil your assassins," she picked up a dark red apple from the table, "Poisoned apple, Lucien? It's careless to leave them lying on the dining table. Someone could get killed."

"Oh, that's M'raaj-Dar's fault. He leaves them lying everywhere," Antoinetta cut in hastily, "N-not on purpose, though! He's just, um, absent-minded."

"Yes, that is one of his most defining traits," Arquen commented dryly, disdainfully, "What with him running his own store within the sanctuary. Being _absent-minded_ compliments his business skills, I'm sure."

Oh, this was not going well. Not at all.

"How long do you intend on staying, Arquen?" Lucien inquired – staying polite, but there was impatience creeping into his tone, "While we welcome guests, the sanctuary is quite busy at the moment."

"Of course," Arquen answered, with a smile that suggested she didn't believe him in the slightest, "I shan't stay too long...for lunch, perhaps. I have a few contracts to attend to myself...they're terribly _elusive_, you know."

_She knows he's lying. She just needs to prove it._

Lucien's self-restraint was quite extraordinary; the oh-so-subtle tensing of his shoulders was the only indication of his desire to strangle the woman, "I'm sure they are. Let's have lunch, shall we?"

_She wants to get him thrown out...and I'm the opportunity she's been waiting for. If she finds me..._

He watched Arquen seat herself and sip a nearby glass of mead. She was watching Lucien over the rim, eyes cold, ruthless, and worryingly self-assured. Like a predator watching its prey. Like a cobra poised to strike.

_Now _he knew why he was meant to be afraid of her.


	11. Chapter 11

In this chapter, stuff happens. Also, I have drawn more Caelan fanart, because I'm a nerd.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

"Passing through," Lucien snarled as soon as Arquen had departed the sanctuary, "_Passing through_. The nerve of that woman!"

"She was looking for Caelan," Teinaava spoke quietly, "But how did she know he was here...?"

"She doesn't know, she merely suspects. At least she didn't find him, close as it was. That would have been catastrophic."

"Speaker..." Antoinetta stared at her hands miserably, "Did I...did I screw up? I'm no good at lying..."

"No. You needn't chastise yourself." Lucien sighed, a sound both weary and frustrated, "Arquen has the unfortunate habit of seeing through any deception, no matter how skilful. She already knew we were hiding something, regardless of your words...it is a matter of making sure she cannot _prove_ it. You were able to hide Caelan from her, that is what counts."

Antoinetta glanced at Caelan, "You're not too sore from staying under the bed all that time, are you?"

He shook his head; truthfully, he'd been laying on his arm for about an hour, and was only just starting to get any feeling back, but it was a petty concern. She had come so close, so close to finding her prize...

"Arquen is based in Chorrol...Telaendril's presence must have alerted her, then," Ocheeva mused, "But to find out so quickly...she must keep a close eye on her town."

"She frequents the Grey Mare inn with the rest of the locals. If a Mages Guild member gossiped about Telaendril's..._interest_ in un-binding staffs, she would be one of the first to hear it," Lucien declared irritably, "Of all the cities in the world, why did it have to be _Chorrol_ Guild hall to specialise in Conjuration?"

"Who's in Leyawiin...Alval Uvani? You think he'll take interest in M'raaj-Dar...?"

"He'll be fine. Uvani spends most of his time travelling anyway, he's hardly ever at his sanctuary. No, it's _her_ we need to watch out for."

"So what are we going to do about Caelan?" Teinaava asked, nodding towards the elf, "Do we keep him here and risk her finding him, or sneak him to a more secure location? She's probably monitoring our actions, though..."

Ocheeva sighed; "A pity we can't masquerade him as one of our own, but we have no Altmer members."

There was a pause as everyone waited for the inevitable '_half_ Altmer!' from Caelan. It never came.

"Caelan?" Vicente asked softly, "Are you alright?"

"Hm?" Evidently he had been paying no attention, "Sorry, drifted off there. Did you ask me something?"

"Ocheeva just said 'Altmer'. We were expecting a protest."

"I'm half...yeah..." Caelan finished carelessly, seeming to wander back into his thoughts. Contrary to what he wanted, everyone immediately paid attention, confused and curious.

"What's wrong? You're not normally _this_ distracted."

"I'm just...worried," Caelan admitted at last, "I knew the whole you-not-being-able-to-kill-me thing was bad, but I didn't realise it was _this_ bad. Even when I found out you could be expelled from the Brotherhood, I didn't think it would actually happen. But seeing Arquen..." he bit his lower lip nervously, "It really _is_ serious. Can you not fake my death, just so you're not at risk?"

Lucien shook his head, "It cannot be done. The Night Mother keeps track of all contracts, and passes the information on to Ungolim, who then relays it to the rest of the Black Hand. Even if you changed your entire identity, they would know you were still alive."

"Isn't there _any_ way to stop the contract?"

"Only if the contractor lies dead. Not hard to arrange were it anyone else, but this is Mannimarco," Vicente explained grimly, "On top of him being a formidable foe, he has a legion of Necromancers at his command, and _they_ have control over countless undead. It would take a master assassin to bring him down."

"And while I've gotten past his subordinates before, I cannot kill him. It's forbidden for a start, and even if I _did_, Arquen would use it as proof that I could not fulfil the contract," Lucien agreed, "I can't send one of my own assassins for the same reason, nor I can I hire someone else to do the job. A freelance mercenary would most likely fail anyway."

"So then..." Any glimmer of hope was drowned by despair, "What do we do? What do _I_ do?"

"You stay here," the Speaker told him, "Arquen may return to inspect the sanctuary, but not for some time. She will watch for any smuggling, however, and chances are she'll keep an eye on Fort Farragut for a while. For that reason, you _must not_ leave the sanctuary in case she sees you, understood?"

The mer swallowed anxiously. Once again he was house-bound, but this time it was not by Lucien's will: "I understand."

* * *

The door to Vicente's quarters creaked open of its own accord, and remained ajar. While the vampire couldn't _see_ anything, he could hear the stealthy footsteps, the quiet rustle of fabric that would have been undetectable to human ears.

"What is it, Lucien?" he asked.

There was a grumble from the Speaker as he realised he'd been caught, and he let the chameleon spell drop. He continued to wander around the room, however, glancing around as if discreetly searching for something.

"Lucien?" Vicente politely inquired again.

"Caelan," he muttered back, looking in the wardrobe, on top of the wardrobe, behind the wardrobe, "He hasn't bothered me all evening, and it's making me suspicious."

"So you thought he'd be here?" Vicente guessed with a knowing smile. Lucien was considerably more possessive than he liked to admit, "I haven't seen him at all, I'm afraid. Have you tried the living quarters?"

"He isn't there. Not in the training room either," Lucien ran a hand through his hair, brow furrowed, "You don't think he's left the sanctuary, do you? Not after I explained everything to him..."

Now it was Vicente's turn to look worried, "I don't think so. He may not have much common sense, but he understood the importance of the situation. Perhaps you just missed him?"

"Vicente, have you seen- oh, hello Speaker," Ocheeva appeared at the doorway – giving the room the same discreetly searching glance as Lucien had, "My apologies, I did not mean to interrupt you."

"It's fine...are you looking for something, Sister?"

"It's nothing really...I just seem to have misplaced an item," she told him, though the look on her face suggested 'misplaced' wasn't quite the word, "...You haven't seen my invisibility scrolls anywhere, have you?"

"Oh _hell_," Lucien cursed, and swiftly strode form the room.

"Speaker-!" he heard Vicente call from behind him, "Where are you going?"

"To find Caelan!" he answered hurriedly, climbing up the ladder to the sanctuary's well entrance, and only just remembering to re-cast his chameleon spell. With any luck, he could catch him as he was leaving Cheydinhal.

* * *

The invisibility spell flickered and died as he approached Shadowmere; she regarded him calmly, unfazed by his sudden appearance as though she had already known he was there, although she seemed to grow suspicious as he drew closer. Silly, really – horses _couldn't_ look suspicious, but then she was no ordinary steed.

"Sshh," he whispered soothingly, fingertips just barely stroking her glossy mane, "Good horse, good h- ow," she promptly bit him as he tried to grab her reigns, "_Bad_ horse. Now come on, I need co-operation."

He evidently wasn't going to get it, since she snorted and pulled her head away. She had never acted up around Lucien, as far as he could recall...this one knew who her master was.

"_Please._ There isn't much time," he told her urgently – feeling ridiculous for explaining himself to an animal, but he had the eerie impression she could understand him, if not by his words, "I just need to go somewhere...only for a little while, I promise, then we'll come back. If everything goes according to plan, this might just save Lucien's hide."

...She understood. He wasn't sure _how_ she understood, or how he even knew that she did, but she recognised she was being borrowed, not stolen. He took her lack of fuss as the go-ahead, and hoisted himself onto the saddle.

_...Now what?_

Truthfully, he had never ridden a horse before – excluding his journey to Cheydinhal, but Lucien had been the one guiding Shadowmere; he had just been clinging onto him, probably much tighter than he had needed to.

"Erm – ah – um," he stammered when she, bored of his indecision, began to move towards the gate. He had no idea how to steer her, but she seemed capable of doing it herself, "...I'll just leave it up to you, then."

* * *

By the time Lucien reached the east gate of Cheydinhal, Caelan was gone.

And, he quickly realised with a glance over at the stables, so was Shadowmere.

"_Thief!_" he cursed in a low hiss, marching over to the open gate. He could see fresh hoof-prints in the dirt path leading away from Cheydinhal; it was almost certainly Caelan who had ridden away.

But that was odd...why would she go willingly? Bandits and the like had tried to steal Shadowmere before – exotic and powerful as she was, who could resist? But they usually ended up thrown in the bushes, or at least savagely bitten. She knew to whom she belonged.

"He's got my own horse disobeying me," he muttered darkly, heading back to Cheydinhal with an unusual and unpleasant sense of defeat. Deliberately contrary as he was, it wasn't wholly surprising that Caelan inspired defiance in others as well. He could only hope Shadowmere would eventually wander back to Fort Farragut as she usually did.

_And that she'll bring that infuriating elf with her,_ he thought savagely, _So I can remove those thieving hands of his twice over.

* * *

_

_Oh dear._

His ride to Cheydinhal had been rather gentle, he now realised; Lucien had kept Shadowmere to an unhurried trot, probably due to his guest rider. But Lucien wasn't here now, and his steed was not easily controlled.

So far he'd figured out that pulling the left or right reign nudged her in that general direction. That _wasn't_ how you steered a horse, he was sure, but she seemed to get the gist of his intentions. But while compliant, and not trying to throw him to the ground, she was determined to scare the life out of him.

_I'm sure horses aren't meant to be this fast..._ he thought weakly, fingers twisting and knotting around the reigns. It didn't help that he was so damn light; no matter how far he leaned forwards, he still felt in danger of falling off. And given the speed Shadowmere was currently going, that would be very painful indeed.

_But the sooner I get there, the better_. He wondered if Shadowmere knew that too, given the urgency in her stride. He wasn't sure if he was being chased – by Arquen or otherwise – but it certainly _felt_ like it. Ironically, fleeing was the last thing on his mind: he was going to confront his problems head-on instead of hiding or running away. The mantra of his location repeated over and over in his head, as if to remind himself why he was going through all this trouble instead of sitting pretty in the sanctuary with an apple and a good book. Because just the name of his destination summed up the task he was about to undertake:

_Echo Cave_.


	12. Chapter 12

Onward, to the story!

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

Lucien had been swirling the wine around his glass for the past half-hour, Vicente realised. While it was a rather tantalising shade of red, he knew it wasn't what had the Imperial's attention. After all, he had known Lucien ever since he joined the Dark Brotherhood, and he had learned to recognise when he was worried.

"Brother?" he called softly, "Will you be okay?" Not _are you alright?_, because that would have been a stupid question. But then, Vicente always chose his words carefully.

To most people, it would seem he received no reaction – that Lucien hadn't heard, or was simply ignoring him. But he had started tilting the glass from side to side, so that the wine sloshed around and almost spilled over the rim. He had heard, but was unwilling to talk. With a sigh, Vicente turned to go.

"...Why?"

Oh, perhaps not. The Breton turned with a puzzled expression, although he had an idea of what Lucien was referring to: "Why what, Brother?"

"Why does he never listen?" Lucien went on, still staring down at the glass, still seeing how far he could go before the liquid spilled, "I _told_ him not to leave. I _explained_ why. And yet he still defies me..."

Vicente kept his sigh to himself, and took a seat opposite Lucien, "Did he leave a note? Something to say where he was going, anything at all?"

"Nothing. Not a trace," back to swirling the wine about, "He can't have just gone for a wander if he took Shadowmere...and stole Ocheeva's scrolls as well. What could he be up to?"

"Fleeing the sanctuary, it sounds like. Maybe he wanted to distance himself, so Arquen couldn't accuse you of hiding him."

"She'll accuse me _anyway_," the Speaker told him, "If she finds him, she'll either realise he can't be killed and use it as evidence, or drag him back here and have me kill him – _fail_ to kill him – in front of her. He would have been safer here where we could at least hide him," he put the glass down far too roughly, causing wine to fly over the table, "Stupid, _stupid_ boy. He's going to get me thrown out of the Brotherhood...and whoever's unfortunate enough to inherit the contract. Arquen, with any luck."

"Why is she so determined to have you thrown out...?"

"It's not so much _me_ as this sanctuary. You know how long she's had her eye on Cheydinhal," Lucien leaned back then, staring impassively at the spillage of wine, glistening like blood in the low light, "We get the most business and the most money. I've no doubt the other Speakers are envious, but only she would snap up the chance to have me removed."

"Presuming she finds Caelan, of course."

"I wouldn't assume otherwise. She's more ruthless than you might think," the Speaker shook his head, "Being taken for weak and dim-witted is half the reason she's gotten so far...she's not to be underestimated."

"No," Vicente agreed, lacing his fingers together thoughtfully – but even in the flickering lamplight, Lucien could see his smile, "But then, neither is Caelan."

* * *

_Lucien was right,_ Caelan thought, _It is ridiculously useful._

Adept at sneaking as he was, he wouldn't have been able to get past all these Necromancers without being spotted. Especially now that Mannimarco, having found out Lucien had reached him completely undetected, had stepped up the security; there were twice as many zombies staggering around as usual. _Still not very bright though,_ he mused as he carefully evaded yet another minion. Then again, most of them didn't have _heads_, so how they managed to see or hear anything at all was beyond him. Even so, it was easier than ever to slip past them when under the guise of invisibility.

_Three scrolls left._ It wasn't terribly fair on Ocheeva, but Illusion magic wasn't his strong suite, and it wasn't as though he had stolen them purely for personal gain. No doubt Lucien was furious and threatening to strangle Caelan with his own intestines when he got back, but he would calm down once he learned of the mer's purpose. He might even _thank_ him, although the chances were slim.

A bit of gratitude would be nice, though. After all, he was about to save Lucien's career.

_Although I shouldn't, psychopath fetcher that he is. _It wasn't even the whole mass-murderer thing, he just wished Lucien were a bit more _polite._ Letting him have a bedroll, for instance, or perhaps, say, not stabbing him so often.

It was, however, done with the best intentions – okay, the intention to kill him, but that was what Caelan had asked for, and he could certainly say Lucien had put in the effort. He probably could have found a loophole in the law – if there was such a thing for murderers – that would prove he had technically killed his target and technically fulfilled the contract. But he was instead trying to break Caelan's self-induced curse _and_ keep him away from Arquen as well. It was a nice enough gesture (in the bloodiest way possible) to warrant his current actions, Caelan figured.

_There is no contract if the contractor lies dead._

Mannimarco's power outstripped his own with question. He had, after all, discovered the secret to eternal life, and charmed countless Necromancers into his cult with promises of exactly the same thing. He was admired, worshipped, feared. He was dangerously intelligent, omnipotent, immortal.

_...But not unkillable._

Therein lay his ultimate advantage. Oh, he would die, he was sure of that. Mannimarco could wipe him out with a single spell. But he would come back. He would keep trying, however long it took, until his once-teacher was dead, and the contract has been nullified.

The invisibility faded as he touched the rotting wooden door, the entrance to the main chamber of Echo Cave; he activated the next scroll, which crumpled and disintegrated in his hand as it passed on its once-only magic to him. Mannimarco was up ahead, half-cloaked by the swirling mists of the cave-lakes, but still visible. He had his back turned, Caelan realised he drew closer, and reached into his sleeve, soundlessly withdrawing the iron dagger he had brought along. At his worktable, re-assembling a corpse by the look of things...the perfect opportunity to plunge a knife into his back.

"There you are," Mannimarco spoke casually, causing the mer to freeze in his tracks, "I've been expecting your return, Caelan."

He turned, hands coated in red, smirk brimming with arrogance as he stared at his completely invisible intruder.

"Scroll? Yes, it must be. I can detect your magic from a mile off, and that certainly isn't it," he paused thoughtfully, "You're giving off _some_ kind of magic, but not yours..._mine_, if I'm not mistaken. You have the Staff of Worms with you?"

_Not quite,_ Caelan thought with a rather dark sense of triumph, a macabre glee at what he was about to do – was this how Lucien felt, just before a kill? But he said nothing, not even when Mannimarco idly flicked a dispel at him, dissolving his invisibility.

"And yet you're not carrying it with you...what have you done with it, sneaky little mer?" the Necromancer frowned, "Well if you've come to return it, you're too late. I've had enough of your kleptomaniac ways, so I sent an assassin after you. I'm surprised he hasn't killed you by now, I hired him a while ago."

"I've run into him." _If only you knew how things have progressed since then._

"Have you now? He must be inadequate then, or you've just gotten exceptionally lucky. In any case, I can't revoke the contract now, so your fate is quite sealed. But as you're here, I might as well take the Staff from you."

Caelan slowly shook his head; "I didn't come to return the Staff."

"Then what- oh," Mannimarco gave a low, mocking laugh as he caught on, "My dear, stupid boy...do you honestly believe you can kill me?"

He answered with his own knowing grin, "I do."

"Hmph. You're more brainless than I thought," the other Altmer tutted, but flexed his right hand in preparation of beckoning power, "If the assassin couldn't get rid of you, I suppose I'll have to do it myself...now, let's get this over with, shall we?"

Orange glimmered at his fingertips, magicka hummed in the air – and Caelan dived to one side just in time to avoid a roaring fireball. With no time to get back on his feet, he curled inwards and rolled away behind the nearest rock pillar.

"Tell me, Caelan," he heard Mannimarco say from the other side, "Where has this sudden ferocity come from? You never displayed any desire to kill me until now."

He did not answer, but instead summoned a wraith, hoping to keep Mannimarco distracted. With a disdainful glance, the Necromancer cast a turn undead spell, and sent the creature fleeing.

"Idiot child, _I_ taught you that spell. And you haven't answered my question," his tone was berating – disapproving even, "You were one of my more placid students – morbidly curious, yes, but never vicious. So why now do you want me dead?"

"It's nothing personal," Caelan dashed over a stone shrine, flinging an ice spell as he did so; it was casually deflected, skimming across the lake and briefly freezing the water's surface, "But I need to end the contract, and killing you is the only way to do it."

"Trying to save yourself? And yet you make an attempt on my life personally instead of sending an assassin of your own...how foolish."

The next fireball more or less destroyed the shrine, sending searing heat and shards of rubble everywhere. He endured most of the damage with a quick shield spell, and launched his own counter-attack – but in his panicked confusion, missed entirely and set a nearby wall-hanging alight, the Order of the Worm insignia eaten up by the flames.

"Mind the _furniture,_" Mannimarco snapped, instantly summoning another spell, while Caelan was still breathless from his exertion. He had forgotten just how skilled his once-teacher truly was; how effortlessly he called his magicka, the way it danced and shimmered around him, resonating through the surrounding air.

_Like...now..._

Curse his distracted mind. He might've avoided the burden spell, but no – it quite literally hit him like a ton of bricks, making his limbs so heavy he couldn't _tremble_, let alone run away. The precise purpose, he realised as Mannimarco readied yet another spell, the air so thick with raw power that it left Caelan reeling. Electricity crackled at his palm, weaving between his fingers and snapping viciously at its surroundings. The Necromancer smirked, though there was something inherently grim about it, the final goodbye in his eyes half-illuminated by bolt blue.

There was no way to avoid it. The spell hit him squarely in the chest, voltage screaming through his nerves to every other part of him, spiralling up his spine and straight into his skull. He knew he was dead long before he actually died; he could register nothing but _pain_, white as far as he could see, and a shrill, ear-splitting ringing that he could _feel_ more than hear. He could smell something burning, most likely his own flesh, could taste the blood and bile in the back of his throat, and then-

_Chaos. Beautiful, perfect. So loud. Too quiet. Need more. Stay forever._

_No...don't take me back there-!_

He shuddered awake, glancing down at his hands just in time to see reborn skin crawling over the burnt-black tissue, removing all evidence of death. He then looked up the find Mannimarco staring at his with a mix of confusion, disbelief, and intrigue.

"Well now...this _is_ interesting."


	13. Chapter 13

Have I mentioned that I like writing Mannimarco? It's surprisingly fun to do.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

"You've merged with the Staff of Worms."

Admittedly, Caelan was shocked; "How did you-"

"-Know?" Mannimarco finished with a smirk, "Foolish mer, I know my own magic when I feel it. And what else could bestow the power of revival? There's no other explanation. You bound yourself to the Staff."

"I bound the Staff to _me,_" Caelan insisted.

"You bound _yourself_ to _the Staff,_" the Necromancer corrected him sharply, "Though no doubt accidentally...even someone as idiotic as you wouldn't attempt a soul-binding on purpose. I'm surprised it didn't kill you."

He grinned, "Perhaps a little more talented than you gave me credit for, teacher?"

Mannimarco snorted, "_Dumb luck_ is more like it. Arrogance and a distinct lack of common sense motivated you to even _try_ it, and explains why you failed," he gave Caelan a scornful glance, "You assumed binding items only required knowledge of Conjuration. There is more to it than that."

"There is?"

"Give me strength," Mannimarco pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation, "_Mysticism_, you stupid boy. A skill in which you are decidedly lacking...no wonder you got it wrong."

"Or maybe I got it_ right_," Caelan countered, "After all, I'm now unkillable...so guess who's going to win this fight?"

"Again, you presume too much," he laughed, low and malicious, "I can't kill you, but I can certainly _capture_ you...and your invincibility makes you quite the valuable specimen for Necromancy research."

_Hm. I hadn't thought of that._

_Extra motivation to kill him, I suppose._

He spotted the iron dagger, lost in the earlier struggle, glinting from the floor as if beckoning him. Even as he dived for it, Mannimarco realised his intentions, and threw a spell at him. _Fire._ Instant kill, didn't matter. Thirty seconds later, he grasped the dagger and ran at his former teacher.

_Death._ Cold, chaos, beautiful. He found himself temporarily knocked back, but kept going.

_Death._ Dark, calming, perfection. He got back on his feet and continued.

Mannimarco dodged the first dagger-swipe, wisely sheltering behind a pillar. He'd made the great King of Worms retreat, Caelan realised with grim triumph. He would never be able to out-spell Mannimarco, but in close quarters he could hurt him, even kill him. So long as he didn't let the Necromancer get any distance...

He pursued him behind the pillar, where he was ambushed with a hasty burden spell, but he was soon free. _Swipe, swish_, he kept missing by millimetres, catching robes, or the odd lock of hair. And all the while, he was constantly assaulted by spells – fire, ice, lightening; drain, demoralise, burden. He stopped counting the number of times he died, it all blurred into a constant state of _killhimkillhimkillhim-_

And he did.

It was a stroke of pure luck, a split-second between one spell and the next, where Mannimarco left himself unguarded. And suddenly the dagger was buried to the hilt in his abdomen, and Caelan's hands were scarlet, and-

Heavens. He _did_ look good covered in blood.

"You – you-" Mannimarco gasped , staggering back against the pillar and clutching at the dagger's handle. The crimson could barely be seen soaking through his black robes, but it stood vivid against the paler rock of the pillar, and decorated his Altmer skin just like Caelan's. Gold and red. A regal combination.

What Caelan failed to see, however, was the magicka glowing at Mannimarco's bloodstained fingertips.

The paralysis spell sent him soaring back, and when he landed his limbs refused to co-operate. The Necromancer laughed and coughed, half-walking, half-stumbling over; he fell to his knees from the blood loss and dragged himself the rest of the way.

"What..." Caelan managed to say, his mouth being the only moveable thing at the moment, "What are you doing?"

"You don't deserve it," Mannimarco muttered lowly, drawing out a rough symbol on the ground around the other mer, his blood as the ink, "You don't deserve immortality...I may be good as dead, but Oblivion take me before I let you live forever."

Caelan swallowed nervously, unsure whether to be worried or relieved; "You're...un-binding the Staff?"

"Not quite," he laughed bitterly, without humour, "I _could_, but ripping a soul apart is a painful and lengthy process. I won't last long, but a few minutes is all I need."

"Then what-" chanting in a dead language, and suddenly the ground felt warm beneath him – _too_ warm, and soon the heat was unbearable, seeping through his skin and directly into his veins. He wanted to get away, but he couldn't move, couldn't even writhe in pain. His heart thundered painfully in his chest, breath came in ragged gasps, but he couldn't figure out why the air tasted like blood, "What is this?"

Mannimarco didn't answer, merely laughed watched as Caelan struggled against the paralysis, wanting to curl inwards and run away and claw his own heart out at the same time. It felt as though his insides were being clenched, compressed, crushed – but he wasn't dying – _why am I not dying?_

"A success...good, good," he just about heard, and his vision was too busy blurring and sharpening to let him see anything, "Then again, if you survived the soul merge, you can probably withstand just about any amount of pain."

The paralysis finally wore off, but he could still barely move, feeling horrendously heavy and sluggish. As he slowly dragged himself upright, his vision finally settled, and the screaming in his ears faded into silence.

"What-" his own voice startled him, whispery and paper-thin, as though it hadn't been used in centuries, "What did you do to me?"

"You'll find out soon enough," Mannimarco answered, still supremely arrogant even inches from death. He could barely be called Altmer anymore, his skin having lost its golden hue in favour of a pallid grey. It contrasted sharply with his blood, which trickled from his mouth and down his chin, but did nothing to hinder his smirk, "Suffice to say...I would be more careful with my invincibility if I were you."

Caelan frowned and opened his mouth, but didn't get a chance to speak as Mannimarco toppled sideways, landing with a dull thud and a faint splash of liquid red. And then nothing – no moving, no speaking, no breathing.

He was dead.

The mer exhaled slowly, flooded with relief. He had done it. He had ended the contract. Lucien was no longer at risk.

He picked himself up, still stumbling and swaying from whatever ritual Mannimarco had used. His gaze rested on the bloody symbol painted on the floor; he had no idea what it meant, just a mix of archaic symbols he didn't recognise. He certainly didn't _feel_ any different now that the pain had faded – but what had the Necromancer meant when he said 'a success'?

Unfortunately, he didn't have time to dwell on it; hands hammered at the wooden door of the chamber, and frantic voices asked what was going on. He had completed what he came here for, but he was yet to escape, and he didn't intend to get captured. He had no fear of death, but being tortured and experimented upon was _not_ how he envisioned his future, especially not after Mannimarco's cryptic words. He hadn't a clue what had been done to him, but it couldn't be good.

_Quickly, quickly..._ he frantically pulled out his last invisibility scroll; his robes were tattered and burnt from the barrage of attacks he'd endured, but the enchanted scroll remained unharmed. It fizzled away as soon as he activated it, his form vanishing from sight just as the door flew open.

_No more scrolls left_, he reminded himself as Necromancers spilled into the room – and gasped, horrified, at the sight of their fallen leader, _Better make it last._

Time to run.

* * *

Luckily, almost all of Mannimarco's followers rushed to the central chamber at the commotion – so when his invisibility spell _did_ run out during his escape, he only had to fight a few troublesome zombies. Shadowmere was, to his surprise, still waiting for him outside, and wasted no time in galloping away from Echo Cave while he clung on for dear life.

When nightfall came, he fought off a group of bandits for use of their camp, and spent the evening gingerly flicking lice off his bedroll as he tried to sleep.

_Such is the life of a penniless wanderer... _he thought wistfully, watching Shadowmere roam about the campfire as if keeping guard. There were plenty of places to stop on the way to Cheydinhal, but as far as he knew, there was a Dark Brotherhood sanctuary in every town, and he needed to avoid being spotted. He could still be linked to Lucien, especially with Shadowmere in tow, and then the Speaker would be accused of sabotaging his own contract. It made him wish Lucien had a less distinctive horse, really.

_Lucien, Lucien, Lucien._ What an odd, ambiguous and decidedly violent relationship they had. He wasn't sure how to term it, he didn't even know the man's honest opinion of him. Then again, the man himself was a puzzle: charmingly sadistic, intensely possessive in a frightening-yet-flattering way. He had to be insane, but Caelan had always thought insanity meant having no control over your thoughts, your emotions, your actions. Lucien could show the world whatever face he wanted them to see.

He could be summed up in no other word but _fascinating._

_Of course, now that the contract has been nullified..._ the thought had come to him as he had been riding Shadowmere, _Our business is concluded. He has no reason to keep trying to kill me, or to let me stay in the Cheydinhal sanctuary...so I suppose we'll part ways._

He didn't know how that was going to happen. It was simple enough, really...tell Lucien he had killed Mannimarco, that the contract was over, and say farewell. It felt as though there should be more than that, but there was really nothing else to be done.

_What happens, happens._ Such was his overall philosophy on life. He gazed up at the roof of his tent; through the flimsy canvas he could see the star-saturated sky, glittering like a magnificent ocean of diamonds.

He then spotted a louse on the end of his nose, and promptly swatted it away.

_That_ would have to be seen to in the morning as well.

* * *

"Speaker! Speaker!"

"What is it?" Lucien murmured, not looking up from his book. He had hoped reading would take his mind off his grim situation, but after an hour he was still on the first page. Thoughts of that infuriating mer still drove him to distraction, even when he was trying to distract _himself._

"Caelan is back!"

"_What?_" he didn't even bother shutting the book, simply tossed it aside and rose from his chair. Antoinetta hurriedly led him to the entrance hall, where all the other assassins present crowded around one person – and he would have recognised that person anywhere.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, I- oh." Lucien pushed his way to the front, and Caelan fell silent, as did everyone else.

_How am I supposed to react?_ There were so many emotions, he wasn't sure which one to pick. Happiness. Relief. Worry. Anger. Comfort. Bitterness. Longing.

In the end, he chose the one he was most familiar with.

"_Where,_" he hissed so dangerously that even Caelan flinched, "Have you _been?_"

"I was-"

"Did I not tell you to stay in the sanctuary? Did I not explain _precisely why _you were not allowed to leave?"

"If you'll let me finish-"

"You do realise that if Arquen saw you, I will be expelled from the Brotherhood?"

"She can't," Caelan told him before the Imperial could continue, "You no longer have a contract."

It was then Lucien's turn to fall silent; "...What?"

"I went to Echo Cave," Caelan declared, "And I killed Mannimarco. No contractor means no contract, right? So Arquen can't get you thrown out."

"You killed Mannimarco?" Lucien repeated slowly, as if he still couldn't believe his ears, "_How?_"

"With great difficulty," the mer assured him, "Oh, with an iron dagger, if you must know. And he _is_ dead, I made sure of that."

"But Mannimarco is a millennia-old Lich," Vicente cut in, as astounded as Lucien, "To go down so easily..."

"I never said it was easy," Caelan looked mildly affronted, as though his near-impossible task had been compared to a garden stroll, "I lost count of how many times I died...but then, I'm unkillable. Mannimarco _isn't_. Thus, I won," he turned back to Lucien, "I had to borrow Shadowmere to get there as fast as possible, but I brought her back, don't worry. She's waiting at the stables. And Ocheeva...I'm sorry, I had to use up all of your scrolls. It was the only way to get past all of Mannimarco's followers."

The Argonian inclined her head, "Given your purpose in taking them, I accept your apology."

"You...ended the contract," Lucien murmured, still in complete disbelief, and only just starting to realise _I'm free I'm safe I won't be thrown out of the Brotherhood._ "But...why? Why go to all that trouble?"

"Well...you went to all that trouble for _me_," Caelan explained, finding himself suddenly sheepish, "And – well – I'm the one who got myself into this mess. It isn't fair that _you_ have to suffer the consequences," he glanced over at Antoinetta, but only briefly, "And now...well, there's no contract. You're no longer required to kill me. And of course there's no reason for you to keep me here."

"You're leaving, Caelan?" Vicente asked softly.

"Well, I have to. I'm not an assassin – I don't think I'd be very good at it anyway," he fidgeted with his sleeve, "That's, um, that's why I came back. To let you know Mannimarco was dead, and...to say goodbye, I guess."

_Goodbye?_ The word sent an unpleasant and unfamiliar cold through his veins, swiftly followed by an almost feral protest of _Nohecan'tgohe'sminehe'sminehe's-_

_-Leaving..._

"Lucien?" Caelan said quietly, "Aren't you going to say anything?"

"...Goodbye," he replied. he replied. Cold, detached, emotionless.

Just what was that look in Caelan's eyes – sadness? Disappointment? The mer opened his mouth to say something, but evidently thought better of it, and settled for a soft "Goodbye," before turning towards the sanctuary door.

There should have been more, Lucien realised even as he watched him walk away. Something was left unsaid, undone, but he didn't know what. And so he didn't say or do anything, just observed Caelan's retreating back: the way the light weaved through his hair and dusted his skin. The tattered and singed condition of his robes, showing just how much of a fight Mannimarco had given him. Bitten fingernails. The nape of his neck. The slight curve of his waist. It was as though he were trying to register as much detail as he possibly could, knowing this would be the last time he saw Caelan.

The elf soundlessly opened the crimson sanctuary door, slipping easily through the small gap, and out of sight. And then...nothing. No dramatic events, no sudden revelations, no signs that Lucien should run after him.

"Brother?" Vicente inquired, barely audible. Everyone else had seen Lucien staring after Caelan, dark eyes betraying no emotion – only the vampire understood the true intensity of his gaze.

"...Well," the Speaker declared, surprising even himself with the nonchalance in his voice, "We can't just stand here all evening. Antoinetta, you're on kitchen duty – Teinaava, you'll need to fill in for Telaendril. Gogron, you can lay the table, try not to break anything this time."

"Yes Speaker," and everyone parted ways, went back to their duties as if nothing had happened. Vicente gave him a questioning glance, but headed back to his quarters, and that was that. Maybe it was better this way, to act as though there had never been a Caelan.

_Goodbye..._


	14. Chapter 14

Featuring a rather..._unique_ character whose name you probably can't remember, but I'm sure you'll all recognise him soon enough.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

A month later found Lucien sat in Fort Farragut, drumming his fingers against his Alchemy table.

By Sithis, he actually _missed_ the annoying little twerp.

_This is ridiculous..._ The entire time Caelan had been here, he'd thought of nothing but how nice it would be if the mer _shut up_ for five minutes. Just five minutes of peace and quiet, uninterrupted by stupid questions or inane topics. Now that he actually _had_ it, the silence seemed hollow and grating, with only the rattling bones of his dark guardians providing any relief from the stagnant soundlessness.

It hadn't taken long for the Listener to learn of Mannimarco's death – a week or so after Caelan's departure, he had received the letter stating his contract had been revoked. No doubt Arquen was suspicious, but she hadn't accused him of anything..._yet,_ anyway. Even so, she had no proof to back up her thoughts, especially since Caelan had cut off all contact from Lucien. The boy seemed to have fallen from the face of the planet.

_I almost wish he hadn't ended the contract._

But that was ridiculous, of course. Now that he didn't have Caelan to constantly see to, or the threat of being expelled looming over him, he could actually get on with his Speaker duties. Receiving orders from the Listener, negotiating contracts, passing them on to the sanctuary...receiving orders from the Listener, negotiating contracts, passing them on to the sanctuary...receiving orders from the Listener, negotiating contracts, passing them on to the sanctuary... Oblivion, when had it all become so _routine?_

It hadn't always been like this. It _can't_ have been like this, or he would have re-considered his career long ago. There was a time when travel was exciting instead of tedious, when negotiation was not a chore, but something he prided himself on. When he always had something to do, somewhere to be, someone to visit, and he was never, _ever_ drumming his fingers in utter, mind-numbing _boredom._

_He can't be the cause of this. It's impossible, something else must have caused it..._

_But what else could it be?_

_Not him, it can't be him. One person can't have that much of an effect. Magic, maybe. Did he cast a spell on me? Curse me?_

He couldn't think of a better explanation. He didn't just become..._attached_ to people. To do so was a form of co-dependence, something he had cast away a long time ago. He wasn't necessarily emotionless, but he couldn't...well, _love,_ although that wasn't the word to use here. Even though he was immensely fond of his sanctuary family, he couldn't say he loved them. He had always considered himself incapable of it.

Not that love was what he was feeling...he felt a distinct lack of _anything_ at the moment, a sort of emptiness he couldn't find a word for. Nothing had changed, everything was the same, but suddenly it was all so _dull_, and he found himself with far too much time on his hands. Yet he had the same amount of work as always, but he got it done so quickly, so mechanically. Even his hobbies didn't consume all of his free time. He had more poison than he would ever need, and the barrel of apples was already overflowing. Shadowmere had been groomed and polished so much that she resembled a marble figurine more than anything else. His books had been read so many times he could recite them from memory.

Everything was wrong, but he didn't know why, or how to fix it.

_Just what has that boy done to me...?

* * *

_

Anvil was a nice enough place, he supposed. He still had his Waterfront home in the Imperial City, but a certain restlessness compelled him to wander; even so, he had not found a city to his liking. Bruma was too cold, Bravil was too run-down, Leyawiin was too damp. Skingrad was pretty, but expensive, and Kvatch, with its famed arena, was far too busy – odd, since the bustle of the Imperial City had never bothered him. That only left Chorrol, which he wasn't going anywhere _near_ in case he ran into Arquen.

So Anvil it was.

_There are worse places to be,_ he thought. The town was a little rough-looking, but not as unfriendly as its appearance suggested, and at least the hotel was affordable. The Flowing Bowl was...well, not the _best_, but it still beat the bandit camps and abandoned ruins he'd frequented while on the road. He was left alone – oh, except for that rather attractive Nord woman, _Signy_ or something likewise, who'd tried flirting with him on his first night. All fluttering eyelashes and honey-tongued words until he'd informed her that he preferred his humans with a penis, and she'd left him alone after that.

At least she hadn't spread the word. Not that he particularly cared what others thought of him, but there were pirates roaming about while their ship was in port, and he didn't want to get into any fights; a few of the unfriendlier ones had already sneered at him for his slim frame and mages robes. Perhaps that should've made things more eventful, sitting by the harbour with buccaneers in the vicinity, but his life was still decidedly dull.

_What on Mundus is happening to me?_ Granted, he got bored easily, but he had never been so thoroughly _dissatisfied_ with his existence. In the past, nothing held his attention for very long, but everything got his attention – from the conversation of passers-by to the way grass swayed in the wind. Now these things no longer held any interest for him.

_It's his fault. Too much adventure, now I can't live without it._

You could always count on an assassin to make life more exciting, but he hadn't realised just how colourless it was without him. Taking a walk, reading a book, going to sleep – where was the fun if he wasn't in danger of being murdered at any given time? Even _food_ was boring, his apple seemingly tasteless without any poison in it. One month had passed since he and Lucien parted ways, and he still found himself thinking of the man more often than he wanted to admit.

That, and Mannimarco's last words. He'd done _something,_ but Caelan still couldn't figure out what, and he hadn't undergone any drastic changes. He'd sketched the ritualistic symbol out over and over again, but he was drawing from memory, and it never looked right. He hadn't come across it in any books either.

"What could it mean...?" he murmured out loud, staring at the sketch in his hands, as he had been doing all morning. A few nearby people glanced over at him, but didn't say anything, used to his presence at the harbour by now. He was here every day, after all, since he had nothing better to do.

_I mean, I recognise a few Conjuration symbols, but the rest is incomprehensible..._ as he was lost in thought, a passing ocean breeze sent the paper fluttering from his fingers. He made a grab for it, missed, and watched despairingly as it was carried away, until-

A darkly tanned hand plucked it effortlessly from the air. Its owner peered at the drawing curiously, not seeming to notice Caelan, despite being stood next to him.

"Um, excuse me," Caelan began a little apprehensively, "That belongs to m- oh," he blinked, startled, when the paper was suddenly thrust at him, no longer of any interest, "Ah...thank you."

"You're welcome. Mind the grass doesn't eat it. It's the fish, you see, they hate the colour purple."

_Oh my. He's one of those._

"I'll bear that in mind," he answered as kindly as he could, "My thanks, Mr...?"

"Mister? Missed her? Missed who? Oh, me," the Bosmer scratched his ear in confusion, "Thurindil. Mother of Tiber Septim. Prince of death, dismemberment, and biscuits."

Caelan smiled. He could have ended the conversation there – which he assumed most people _did_, with a nervous laugh, followed by a low mutter about all the lunatics walking around these days. But then, he wasn't most people.

"Apologies, your majesty, I didn't recognise you there," he inclined his head respectfully, trying to keep a straight face, "How are you today?"

"Mildly crispy. There's worms in my shoes again. The lemon-flavoured ones, I hate those," Thurindil took a seat beside him, evidently pleased that someone wasn't backing away from him for once, "Those robes are nice. Out of tune, though. Do they always sing so loud?"

"All the time. It's not too distracting, I hope," Caelan paused, a question on his lips. No doubt some would scold him for confusing the poor madman, but he wanted to see how Thurindil responded, and his curiosity could never be denied: "Say...why is the sky blue, do you suppose? Why not green or yellow?"

The Wood Elf did not so much as blink at the abrupt subject change, and answered quite matter-of-factly: "Because it's jealous of the sea."

_Perfect._

Of all the possible answers, from a scientific explanation to a simple 'Because the Nine made it that way' – an answer that was even stranger than the question. No wonder ordinary conversation seemed so mundane when there were people _this_ interesting walking about.

"Jealous, you say?" he asked with a smile, "How do you know?"

"What, you don't hear them arguing? It keeps me awake all night," Thurindil frowned, "You must have a hearing problem. Turn the handle three times, left left right. That should sort it out."

"But I thought you said the noise stopped you from sleeping?"

"It does, but I don't know how to turn down the volume."

"Like this," Caelan leaned over, and gently tweaked Thurindil's right ear, "Better?"

"Oh!" he blinked, startled, "That's much quieter, I didn't know you could do that. _I_ can't do anything like that. Except..." he paused thoughtfully, "I can go cross-eyed. But Akatosh says one day my face will stay like that. He's such a nag."

Unable to help himself, Caelan laughed, thoroughly delighted. Suddenly his life was a lot more interesting.

* * *

After a day of endlessly fascinating conversation, and a night spent wondering what an argument between sky and sea would sound like, Caelan found himself in relatively high spirits the next morning. The last month had been dull, oh so dull, but this was something new and fresh. And when he strolled out onto the harbour as per his routine, he found Thurindil actually waiting for him – with someone else, a man with long dark hair, tied back.

_Is it-?_

No. At Thurindil's excited exclamation, the man turned, and was decidedly _not_ Lucien Lachance. The lack of black robes should have given that away, but even so, he had hoped...

"Buttercups and singsong! I told you he was real, I _told_ you!"

"Good morning, Thurindil," Caelan greeted, inclining his head before glancing at the other man, "And, um...?"

"Timothy LaRouche." _Even a close surname_, Caelan thought with an internal wince. But the similarity stopped there: the man was clearly a Breton for a start, and lacked any cold dignity, any murderous glint in his eye. "I'm a crew-member of The Serpent's Wake, it's docked for repairs."

_Pirate, hm? Chances are Thurindil is as well then._

"_He_ thought I was making you up," said elf told Caelan a tad smugly, before adding: "Oh...I slept well last night. Hardly heard a thing. Except the Slaughterfish Poetry Night, but they drank too much custard and passed out before long."

He nodded seriously, "I hear custard has that effect on people. And fish. _Especially_ fish, in fact," he ignored the Breton pirates bewildered look, and went on: "So, how are you today?"

"Lettuce, as usual. The mice have been tap-dancing again, though. It doesn't half make my back itch."

"I'll get it for you," he stepped around to scratch Thurindil's back, and the little Bosmer purred happily, "Tell them to tap-dance somewhere else. They can't be very good if they're just giving you a rash."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing," the man, Timothy, muttered mostly to himself, "You really _are_ holding a conversation with him."

"Yes, what of it?"

"Well there are people who see past Thurindil's...you know, oddities. But no-one has actually encouraged it," he looked Caelan up and down, as though assessing him, "You're not crazy as well, are you?"

"Certainly not." Although everlasting life combined with mind-numbing boredom would probably drive him to that...but he had never considered himself genuinely insane. Strange, perhaps, by the standards of most – but never insane. "I have plenty of sanity. Maybe Thurindil does as well, but you don't realise it."

"He's completely off his gourd," Timothy said flatly, not about to be persuaded otherwise, "But harmless enough, so it doesn't bother me. So long as you're not trying to hurt or use him, I won't have a problem with _you_ either."

"Rest assured, I merely enjoy his company," Caelan told him, before glancing over at the Wood Elf, "Ah, sorry Thurindil...it's rude to talk about you when you're standing right there."

"Huh? It's fine, I'm not here anyways," he paused, then frowned, "Wait, yes I am. Don't be rude!"

"Sorry, sorry," he held up his hands, although he was laughing, "Oh, and I meant to ask...you said you slept well last night? What did you dream about?"

Timothy took this opportunity to leave, he noticed. Not that he blamed him, since he could imagine the ensuing bizarreness when Thurindil was asked about his dreams.

"Oh, lots of things! Nice things, mostly. Homespun honey and warm rain. Paper sunshine. Singing clouds."

_Huh. That sounds...oddly familiar, actually..._ "What did the clouds sing? A sort of...silent tune?"

"Yes, exactly! Were you there? I don't remember seeing you, but then it was quite dark," the Bosmer paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully, "There was sunshine, mind you, Bright red, but not. Actually, I think it was grey. Maybe blue?"

_Vivid and colourless. Noisy and silent. Full of contradictions, things that make no sense..._

_He's describing the Void._

It wasn't that shocking, when he thought about it. Sanity was about having rational thoughts, orderly reasoning – the very opposite of chaos. For Thurindil to be insane, which he undoubtedly _was_, however endearing it may have been, meant he lived close to chaos. Close to the Void.

_If I also live close to the Void...does that mean one day I'll end up like that?_

He had been preoccupied with thoughts of Lucien and Mannimarco over the last month, but he had not forgotten the call of the Beyond, that ever-looming ache that slowly ate away at his mind. Admittedly, he hadn't been killed/resurrected in some time, but his longing for the Void was still very much present. He didn't consider himself insane...but sooner or later, he _would_ end up like Thurindil, his mind submerged in chaos.

_It might not be so bad...maybe this is the only way to reach the Void without dying – to become an extension of it._ He glanced again at the Bosmer, who was still describing all Caelan had seen and heard and felt in those fleeting moments between death and rebirth, standing on the edge of the afterlife. _Besides, Thurindil seems happy enough, regardless of people shying away from him. So perhaps I should just...go mad?_

_After all, Lucien seems to cope fine with it- damnit, I need to stop thinking about him._

Thurindil was no Lucien Lachance. But he was still erratic, eccentric, chaotic – and the reason Caelan intended to stay in Anvil, at least for the time being.


	15. Chapter 15

Thurindil was well-received, I see. And because I do love writing comedy, more humour! Then less humour, because I have a habit of suddenly changing the tone of the story.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

_To L.L._

_You want more contracts? Only so many people contact the Night Mother per week, you know, and I have to distribute them to every city, not just yours. Besides, I thought an excess of free time was supposed to be a good thing?_

_If you want something to do, try convincing that Orc of yours to stop forfeiting the contract bonus. You know which escapade I'm referring to. I mean really, what possessed you to give him a stealth mission?_

_Please burn this letter after reading,_

_The Listener.

* * *

_

_To L.L._

_If no-one else was available for the contract, surely your sanctuary has more than enough work? You already get more than the others, Speaker. You could do with some rest anyway, given how tired you looked last time I saw you._

_Please burn this letter in the fireplace you don't have. How on Mundus do you make it through each winter? You must be part fish or something to withstand that kind of cold._

_The Listener.

* * *

_

_To L.L._

_Yes, I am calling you a fish. And I don't see how more work is going to help you relax, but fine, I'll put aside a contract for you next time I hear the Night Mother. Just don't expect me to do it again. Really, you should take up a hobby if you're bored. Like knitting._

_You had better be burning these after reading them,_

_The Listener.

* * *

_

_Speaker,_

_You are once again required to arrange a contract – and, given the circumstances, also fulfil it. Please travel post-haste to the city of Anvil, and contact the Bosmer woman known as Hasathil._

_The Listener._

_P.S. You're a fish.

* * *

_

Two months. Two months since he had seen Caelan, and things had gotten progressively worse. He had hoped time would erase his restlessness, would fade his memories – not make them more insistent. Work was the only thing that distracted him, but because he worked non-stop to keep himself busy, it got done in half the time it should have taken. And once he had completed the contract Ungolim had given him, he quite literally had nothing else to do.

_Except take up knitting. Damned Bosmer, never takes anything seriously. He doesn't realise how dire this is._

It was almost suffocating, this boredom, this insatiable yearning for company – but not just for anyone, as he had soon discovered. He'd probably charmed more women into his bed in the last month than he had all year, but he still felt hollow, unsatisfied. His fingers itched for Altmer-gold skin, to treat as roughly as he pleased; to bruise, to break, to stain with red, all while that impatient voice asked _Are you done yet?_ before launching into some inane conversation.

_Have I become so co-dependent?_ He was not above desire, above carnal, feral hunger – but he had never truly craved, never _needed_ something just to get by. He'd never laid awake, trying to both remember and forget those last fleeting glimpses until it became outright painful. Caelan was not a drug, he was a poison.

_He cursed me. He must've done. Why else would I become so...so..._

He hesitated to say it. He still did not believe himself capable of love, but this was probably as close as he could get.

_...Obsessed?_

Dangerous territory. To be obsessed with someone was a fundamentally _bad_ thing, but especially for an assassin, because that person could end up being your next hit. He wasn't required to assassinate Caelan any more, but it didn't make it any more acceptable. Something he frequently reminded himself, but it did not lessen his longing. His fixation. His infatuation.

His _obsession.

* * *

_

Despite the oncoming winter, Anvil was still pleasantly temperate – unlike Cheydinhal, which had already seen its first dusting of snow. It didn't take him long to find Hasathil; even if he had not known she was a Bosmer, he could have identified her purely from her nervous disposition, the way her eyes darted to and fro as if searching for something – some_one_.

He approached her under the guise of chameleon, and brought forth a startled gasp when he murmured silkily in her ear: "You called, madam?"

She turned her head, only just able to see his outline, but it was enough to make out his hood and robes; "D-Dark Brotherhood?"

"Unless you were trying to hire the Morag Tong. In which case, you've performed the wrong summoning ritual." What a nervous thing she was. Normally he would have teased and flirted longer, but he had a task to get on with. Besides, he had slept with more than enough people this month. "I am at your service, madam. Perhaps you would care to discuss our business somewhere more...private?"

"R-right," she was flustered, poor thing. A few more suggestive words would have had her heart fluttering, but he didn't come here to acquire yet another conquest.

Nice to know he still had the Lachance charm, though.

She led him back to her house – or walked there alone, it would have appeared to anyone else. But he was following, unseen and unheard, the cold shiver up Hasathil's spine the only indication that he was nearby. He had expected her home to be empty, but she instead took him to the kitchen, where another Wood Elf, male, sat waiting at the table.

"It's...it's okay," she called out apprehensively, unsure exactly where he was, "He knows. You can show yourself."

"As you wish," he let the spell drop, concealing his smirk when both Bosmers glanced warily at his intimidating appearance. "Now then...who do you desire killed?"

Hasathil flinched horribly at the word, clearly not comfortable with the idea; "I'm not...not...please understand, I'm no murderer."

"Of course not. Then you would be _in_ the Brotherhood," he assured her calmly, and opted for a more euphemistic phrasing, "How are my..._services_ required?"

"It's-" she faltered, seemingly unable to continue, until the other elf tenderly took hold of her hand, "It's my...my husband. I need you to...well, you know."

Lucien raised an eyebrow, "Your husband...?" he glanced pointedly at the seated man.

"Oh, Enilroth isn't my – he's my – my lover," she explained hastily, "My husband is Heinrich Oaken-Hull, a Nord pirate captain. He's at sea nine months out of ten, so Enilroth and I..."

"I understand," he said simply, "So you wish your husband out of the way, correct?"

"Y-yes," she looked ashamed, distressed that it had come to this, "There was never any need previously, but..."

"He found out," the man, Enilroth, explained quietly when Hasathil couldn't continue, "He's due to set sail again in a few days, but now that he knows, he's threatening to divorce her. And if that happens..."

"...I'll lose everything," she finished miserably, "I came here from Valenwood, I have no family or support network here. If Heinrich divorces me, I'll be penniless and homeless – Enilroth is still an apprentice smithy, he can't support us both," she was intertwining fingers with Enilroth, Lucien noticed, though it was more to soothe herself than him, "B-but if Heinrich is killed before he can apply for divorce, I'll inherit everything..."

"I see. Consider it done, madam," he paused, "After we negotiate a price, of course. He's a pirate captain, you said?"

"I have, u-um, three hundred septims."

Hm. That was less than he would usually accept, much less. Then again, he usually took more troublesome contracts, whereas this was relatively straightforward. "I feel four hundred septims would be a fairer price."

"Done," she didn't try to haggle, evidently sickened by the thought of pricing a man's life, "He needs to d- to _go_ soon, before he can arrange a divorce. You can find him at the harbour, but there are other people there, and – and you can't just _kill_ him, it has to look like natural causes."

"Of course," he inclined his head slightly before re-activating the chameleon spell, "I will report back when it is finished, madam...rest assured, it will be quite soon."

_No sense in wasting time, I suppose._

He exited the house and headed straight for the harbour, deciding to shadow Heinrich for a while first before choosing how to kill him. Stabbing, slicing, or anything that would leave a mark was out of the question, but there were plenty of ways to kill someone without physical evidence.

_Now then,_ he arrived at the port, quickly spotting the Nord as he paced up and down the walkway, lost in brooding thought, _Right over...there..._

_Caelan._

Now, an Altmer wearing robes was not an uncommon sight. Nor was one with light hair and dark eyes. So with these traits alone, it could have been mistaken identity, perhaps even wishful thinking on his part. But then he heard, "If spriggans joined the circus..." carried over on the breeze, and he knew at once that it was without a doubt Caelan.

Caelan, who was talking to a Bosmer he'd never seen before. Contrary to looking confused or put-off by the bizarre topic, he was contributing just as enthusiastically as the Altmer, mentioning something about painted mudcrabs and moonsugar fiddles.

"Hey," he heard a nearby Orc grunt, and thought for a moment he had let his cloaking spell run out, but it turned out he was talking to another pirate, "Do you have any idea what they're going on about?"

"Who?"

"Thurindil and the High Elf."

"Hell if I know. I wouldn't bother trying to make sense of it," both men glanced over at the pair, "They've been meeting here almost every day for the last month, and they still haven't run out of nonsense to talk about. They just make it up on the spot, I think," he shook his head, "It doesn't matter, so long as they aren't causing trouble. Besides, Thurindil's never really had anyone to talk to before...and by my guess, neither has the Altmer. It's no wonder they're inseparable."

"Yeah, that's what I'm worried about. You know we're setting sail in a few days, it'll be a year before we see Anvil again. He'd better not get miserable is all I'm saying."

"Hm, you're right. Maybe if we take the Altmer along..." Lucien's eyes widened at that.

"You're kidding, right? Look how scrawny he is. Thurindil's short, but he's damned muscular, at least. That mage couldn't lift a _barrel_ if he tried."

"Yeah, but he doesn't have to be a pirate..."

"What- you'd better not be suggesting what I think you are..."

"Well, think about it. Those High Elf types are pretty enough, aren't they?"

"Ha! I don't think Thurindil would approve."

Lucien chose this moment to walk away, before he gave in to his current desire to kill someone – either the talking pirates, this 'Thurindil' or whatever his name was, or Caelan himself.

_So while I've been losing my mind with whatever curse he's placed on me, he's been living happily in Anvil, consorting with some half-crazed pirate?_

His hand brushed against against the dagger at his side, sinfully sharp even against his gloved fingers.

_Not if said pirate is dead, he doesn't..._

No. As much as he wanted to slit the little Wood Elf's throat and show the blood to Caelan, murder would jeopardise his current contract; no matter how natural Heinrich's death looked, it would arouse suspicion if someone else was found messily killed on the same harbour, around the same time. Besides, Thurindil would be setting out to sea again soon enough...and of course, Caelan _wasn't_ going with him. Lucien would personally see to that.

_Actually..._ he glanced over at Heinrich again, slowly smirking as he came up with an idea, _It might be possible to fulfil the contract and let Caelan know I'm here._ Damned if he was going to let himself be forgotten so easily. If he had to be plagued by thoughts and memories every waking hour, so did that thieving little Altmer.

Time to see how well Caelan responded to head games.


	16. Chapter 16

Fun fact: by chapter sixteen, I'd filled up three notebooks of writing.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

"Him again," Caelan commented, watching Heinrich Oaken-Hull sitting on the edge of the harbour, staring down at the water below as if the world had come to an end, "He looks so miserable. I wonder what happened?"

"He must've lost his watermelon," Thurindil stated matter-of-factly, "Set it down and forgot about it, then a Minotaur hid it somewhere. Happens to me all the time."

The Altmer tutted sympathetically, "Well I hope he finds it soon. Just watching him is making me depressed."

It was at this point that Heinrich gave a sudden, strangled gasp, and slumped lifelessly onto his side.

_Oh bugger._

There was a thought, just for a split-second, that this was how Mannimarco had altered the Staff, somehow reversed its properties to _take away_ life instead of restoring it; that he could now accidentally kill people just by thinking about them. But of course, that made no sense, since he'd thought about a lot of people over the last two months – Thurindil, for instance, and he hadn't suddenly died. Besides, it didn't fit with Mannimarco's last words, or his concept of a 'fitting punishment'. Thus, he sensibly concluded, he had not acquired powers of instant death, Though that would come in useful for Necromancy...

"What in Oblivion...?" a nearby pirate ran over to Heinrich, before announcing, horrified: "He's dead! The captain is dead!"

"But how?" More crewmen rushed to the scene, and Caelan decided to get to the front before a crowd formed, "There are no wounds...did he just keel over?"

"It must've been magic!" one declared fiercely, and immediately pointed to Caelan, "He's the only mage here! He must've done it!"

"I didn't do anything!" he protested, startled at the accusation, "I was just talking. Right, Thurindil?"

"Nirnroot!" the Bosmer agreed, nodding feverishly.

"Well he can't have just _died_. Timothy, help me check for injuries..."

_I didn't do anything,_ Caelan reminded himself, glancing over at the dead Nord, _But that is strange, to fall dead just like that..._

It was then that he noticed a half-eaten apple on its side some distance away, as though it had fallen and rolled away from Heinrich's open hand.

An apple...

_Lucien._

Almost instinctively, he knew where to look. He glanced over at a gap between buildings, a narrow space just big enough for one person, too shadowed for even a strip of sunlight to come through. And there stood a black-robes man, face hidden by his hood, but he _knew_ it was Lucien, and he knew he was staring directly at him. _A deliberate glimpse,_ he realised when the assassin lingered just long enough to tilt his head, smirk barely illuminated, before disappearing into chameleon.

_I can't run after him,_ he thought desperately, knowing Lucien was walking away and wanting to follow – but if he left now, it would definitely make him a suspect, though he had done nothing wrong. _But he's here. He knows I'm here too. He killed that man. He's here._

_What...what do I do...?

* * *

_

That had been truly perfect, Lucien decided with a still-present smirk. His poisoned apple had worked flawlessly, and the way Caelan had instantly looked over at him, those sparse seconds of eye contact before he disappeared...he had seen the desperation in Caelan's eyes, the way he had wanted to pursue, but couldn't. Of course, Lucien could have easily evaded him anyway, especially with invisibility, but the fact that he had been _unable _to leave the scene...

_How does it feel to be the one longing, little Altmer?_

He wound unseen through Anvil's streets, back to Hasathil's house to tell her the job was done. He usually left the city once the contract was complete so as he wasn't around to be accused...but he intended to stay in Anvil a little longer. Funny how easily his boredom had vanished.

Hasathil's house was unlocked, and he found her sitting at the table with Enilroth once more. She gasped sharply at his sudden appearance, just as she had the first time he had made himself known.

"H-Heinrich...is he...?"

He inclined his head, "You are now a widow, madam."

"Oh..." she sounded relieved, but sadness still lingered in her eyes, the tell-tale signs of a guilty conscience, "And no-one suspects anything...?"

"They're currently blaming anyone who blinks the wrong way...but they have no proof of murder. Poison leaves no marks."

"Poison..."

"It had to be done," Enilroth assured her, squeezing her hand, but this time, she did not react, "He would have left you a penniless outcast. We had no other choice."

"No choice..." she murmured, not sounding the slightest bit convinced.

Their relationship wouldn't last, Lucien thought idly as she handed the money over. Not unless Hasathil could get over her guilt and grief, which wasn't likely. It would weigh down on both of them until one walked away, and they would still be left bitter and broken. Sad, really, that their romance was their reason for contracting the Brotherhood, and yet it was the very same contract that would eventually tear them apart.

However, Lucien was not weighed down by his emotions, and so he shrugged off the sadness with far more ease than most. He was just an assassin, after all – no sentimental involvements, or attachments.

Well, except for one. Speaking of which...

Caelan had evidently gotten away from the crowd. He laughed softly as he watched him wander warily down the streets, fidgeting with his sleeve as he glanced about. Lucien could have stayed away, let him search in vain until he was convinced the assassin had been no more than a trick of the light. But he wasn't that cruel.

Crueller, perhaps...

He approached, undetected, cloaked by chameleon and refined stealth – then brushed past him, just enough to disturb Caelan's robes, to let him feel Lucien's own gloved fingers brush against his own. Of course, Caelan immediately whipped around, hands reaching out to grab him, but the Speaker had already backed safely away.

"...Lucien?" the mer whispered tentatively.

No answer.

"Either you're teasing me, or I'm going mad," he said weakly, "Both are highly unappreciated. Are you there?"

_Not yet, not yet..._ he wanted to startle Caelan again, but he couldn't, not yet. He would make his presence known eventually, but for now, he wanted to keep the Altmer second-guessing himself.

* * *

The day passed by far too fast in Lucien's opinion; once again everything had shifted, and while time had been agonisingly slow, now it seemed to fly past. Then again, he suspected _eternity_ would not be long enough with the amount of fun he was currently having.

_To finally have control over that little fetcher..._ a tug of his robes, a whisper of his name. Things that made Caelan jump and gasp and have everyone stare at him strangely. For once, Caelan could not be defiant or smarmy, could only be the powerless puppet on Lucien's strings.

Unfortunately, with the amount of teasing he had indulged in, Caelan now knew without a doubt that Lucien was there, out of sight. But it didn't matter, he didn't plan on staying hidden for much longer anyway. For a start, the constant chameleon was a sizeable drain on his magicka. And also because, as per usual when it came to Caelan, his patience was wearing thin. Although this time not due to irritation or exasperation...

_Just look at him._

Asleep. He'd tried to feign slumber for a while, hoping to catch Lucien off-guard when he dropped his invisibility, but the Speaker was not easily fooled, and could also stay awake far longer than Caelan. When the mer's breathing slowed and body relaxed, Lucien finally appeared, and just stood, watching.

_Wanting_ as well. His lust did not come as a surprise or horror: it did not make up the majority of his fixation, but it was still present. Especially now, watching Caelan sleep on the low-rent bedroll – hardly silk sheets, but it didn't matter. He sorely wished there was moonlight to compliment the scene, but the room had no window; there was still the nearby candle, flickering weakly in the darkness and casting shifting shadows over the golden skin. Perhaps it was just as well there was no moonlight, as Lucien was having a hard enough time keeping his hands to himself as it was.

_Obsession..._

How had it come to this? He was used to charming and seducing others, making them fall completely and incurably in love with him – not the other way around. Of course, 'in love' was still an inaccurate term, but for one such as him, this was close. Uncomfortably close. He had lusted before, but this was just...overwhelming, this desire to touch, to take, to _break_ and bruise and burn his mark into that flesh, to show the world that the Altmer was his, only his.

It made sense that even his affections would be tinged with sadism – violence was something he understood, after all. But then there was that other, alien part of him that wanted to treat Caelan gently, and he outright _ignored_ that because it was such a foreign feeling. He was not gentle. He was not a ferocious, snarling brute, but he was not gentle.

_I could have him now,_ he contemplated, watching Caelan sleep unaware only a few steps away, _I could be on top of him before he woke up, keep him pinned down; he's weak as anything, he couldn't throw me off. Silence would stop him casting any spells or calling for help...paralyse as a last resort. I could take him here and now, and he wouldn't be able to do a thing about it._

_No..._

It was not his conscience that stopped him. He had lost it long ago, if he had ever owned one at all. The only reason he snatched his hand back at the last second was self-restraint. Though he doubted it was nearly as intense, Caelan _had_ shown a slight reciprocation of attraction towards Lucien, meaning there was no need to lower himself to animalistic standards. He lacked morals, but he still had his dignity, and he was entirely capable of making the Altmer crave _him._

_Let's do this properly._

On the floor was parchment, quills, and an inkwell – the signs that Caelan had been staying here for a while, roughly a month he he recalled correctly. The dying candlelight was hardly adequate for writing, but with some care, he managed to leave his message. He set everything back exactly as it had been before, as if no-one had disturbed it; all except the one slip of paper, which he placed beside the bedroll.

He had no need to remain here. He wanted to, if only to observe Caelan a little longer, but he needed to be gone when the mer woke up – besides, any longer and he would cave in to those brutal, carnal desires. And so he opened the door soundlessly, stepping out of the room...and, as an afterthought, bent down to blow out the candle before leaving Caelan in peace.


	17. Chapter 17

Ren: each to their own. But, ah...no comparisons to Twilight, if you please. Since you left no reply email, I'll have to answer here:

1)It's been 17 chapters, I feel I've developed it for long enough. 2) Lucien has a habit of watching people in their sleep, remember? 3) The chapters are pretty long by my standards, but fair enough. 4) I avoid flashbacks as a general rule.

As for Lucien's sexual orientation...I agree, he _does_ come across as a womaniser – in fact, I'm pretty certain he's straight. But there are many, _many_ het stories about Lucien, and very few slash ones.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

He awoke from a beautiful nightmare, phantasms of bloody flowers and caressing blades that were blissful and terrifying at the same time. Fitting, since he had recently come into contact with the very man who embodied contradiction.

He knew Lucien was back. The glimpse yesterday at the harbour could have been attributed to an over-active and hopeful imagination – but not everything that followed, the barely-there touches and faint laughter in his ear. It was like being haunted, but he knew Lucien wasn't dead.

_He's toying with me...but why?_

Whatever the reason, he wanted it to stop. While he was all for games and light-hearted teasing, he knew Lucien wasn't being playful – he _couldn't_ be, when almost everything he did was steeped in cruelty. He was probably seeing if he could break the mer...the problem was, it was _working._ After only one day he felt a wreck, flustered and frustrated from Lucien constantly reminding him: _I'm right here, out of sight, out of reach._

"Actually..." he glanced around the room; he had expected the assassin to be here, perhaps still invisible, but still observing him silently. But he felt no eyes upon him, no cold, smirking presence, "Lucien?"

He wasn't here. It was too close-quarters, perhaps...in a room so small, he could easily have grabbed Lucien, maybe cornered him. He seemed to prefer teasing Caelan in large, open spaces – and also, annoyingly, when there were plenty of people to stare at him like he was a lunatic, gasping and flinching for no apparent reason.

And then he saw the note.

It was lying there innocently enough, but placed carefully by his bed so that it would be impossible to miss. He picked it up hesitantly, recognising Lucien's handwriting, even though it wasn't signed.

_You have a habit of living in cramped spaces. Meet me in The Count's Arms, 10:00 tonight. No earlier, no later. We have much to discuss._

"So he _was_ here..." he murmured, noting that the candle had been snuffed out some time ago, and certainly not by him. It was eerie, knowing someone had been in his room while he was asleep, just _watching..._had it been anyone other than Lucien, he probably would've felt sickened. Then again, Lucien seemed to get away with quite a lot of unacceptable and frankly outrageous behaviour. But at least he was bringing a swift end to this little mind game.

_'Much to discuss', huh...?

* * *

_

Nearing ten o' clock, when the skies were dark and the streets were empty save patrolling guards, Caelan approached The Count's Arms. He was trying not to appear _too_ nervous, but the threadbare condition of his sleeves showed just how fidgety he had been all day.

Lucien had left him alone, surprisingly enough. No touches, no whispers, nothing. But damnit, even when he wasn't _there_ he still drove Caelan to distraction, making him unable to concentrate even on talking to Thurindil. The Bosmer had been ushered away by his crewmates before long anyway, since the death of their captain left them angry and untrusting. It didn't matter. Everything was going to change tonight, he could feel it.

He had hoped to find Lucien waiting for him at the bar, perhaps over by the fireplace, or just sat at one of the tables, but he couldn't see him anywhere. The left him to glance worriedly around the room until the innkeeper asked him if he was looking for someone.

"Yes, um...Imperial man. Dark hair tied back, brown eyes...?" he didn't give a name, knowing Lucien would have booked a room as someone else.

"Ah, yes! He's currently staying here," he handed over a spare room key, "I wouldn't normally, but he requested I send up an Altmer of your description."

"Half- no, never mind. Which room is it?"

"Up the stairs there and then directly across the hallway. Have a pleasant stay."

"Thanks- wait, what?" but the Redguard had already turned away to tend to the bar. Shrugging it off, he followed the directions to the room, pointedly ignoring just how anxious he truly was. When he finally got the door open, he found the luxurious room empty. His heart sank.

"Ten o' clock sharp. Well done."

He twitched, startled, at the voice, and looked wildly around the room, seeing nothing. _Wait... _"You're _still_ using an invisibility spell?"

"Chameleon, actually. There's a very distinct difference. It allows me to _touch..._" fingers stroked idly along the back of his neck, making him gasp out loud, "...Without breaking the illusion. My very favourite spell, as you can imagine. Tch, close the door," the door closed swiftly behind him – and locked, if he was not mistaken, "Wouldn't want anyone wandering in."

_Wandering in, or running out?_ "Why did you call me here, Lucien?"

"It's been two months. Don't you think some catching up is in order?"

"We could catch up better if I could _see _you."

"In due time, Caelan. There are some..._issues_ we need to discuss. It'll be easier on me to remain unseen."

"Why? What's going on? Lucien-" he reached out and, to his surprise, actually grabbed onto something, an arm clad in soft robes. He was here. He was right here in front of him.

"Take a seat. This might be a while."

"But-"

"Yes?"

"...Never mind," he mumbled, sitting down on the end of the bed.

"To your left a little. In the moonlight." He shifted over, thinking Lucien meant to sit down next to him, but the space beside him remained undisturbed. "First, we should address the curse you placed on me."

He frowned; "Curse?"

"Don't play innocent. I don't know what you did or meant to do, but I demand you remove it at once."

"But I didn't place a curse on you!"

"You must've done," and suddenly Lucien was _there_, still invisible but inches away from him, he could feel it, "Why else would I be condemned to such restlessness? Do you realise just how excruciatingly _dull_ the last two months have been? Everything I once found exciting, intriguing, or challenging – all of it is _worthless_. It means nothing to me anymore."

Caelan's dark eyes widened, "You too?"

A pause; "...What is that supposed to mean?"

"I didn't curse you," the mer insisted, shaking his head, "Or if I did, I didn't mean to, and I'm sorry. But I must've cursed myself as well, given the symptoms are the same."

"I don't believe you," he heard declared, "You've been living peacefully in Anvil the last two months."

"_One_ month, I'll have you know. I just ended up here after wandering around everywhere else. I couldn't stay in the Imperial City...I thought travelling around would help me out, but it didn't," he explained softly, "I expect I'll be leaving in a few days anyway. I only stayed because of Thurindil-"

"_Him,_" Lucien hissed suddenly, words bitter with poison, "The little Bosmer. I suppose _he's_ been keeping you busy the last month, has he?"

"What do you- oh," and then he realised, "-With _Thurindil?_ No...I mean, I like him, but not in that way. Besides, I'm quite certain he doesn't go for men."

"Still enough to keep you here for a month."

"He's been keeping me sane. Ironic, really, given how mad he is," the Altmer smiled, but there was something unquestionably _sad_ about it, "I needed someone to distract me from thinking about you so much."

Silence. Caelan was staring determinedly at the floor. Lucien had forgotten how to breathe.

"..._What?_"

And Caelan said very, very quietly: "I missed you. More...more than I really should've, I think."

Then there were fingers at his neck. He tensed immediately, thinking he was due to be strangled, but then he realised the touch was not at all threatening. "You're not angry?"

"No," a low and faintly relieved chuckle, "I'm not."

The fingers toyed at his neck a little longer before moving up along his jaw and travelling over his face. He parted his lips slightly for the one that traced across his mouth, and placed a light kiss on the fingertip when he thought he could get away with it. "So I take it this means you've missed me too, then."

"Terribly," he could _hear_ Lucien smirking, even if he couldn't see it, "But you should know...there's more to this than the physical. You're quite different to any other lover I've had."

_Lover._ There was something about the way he said it that made him shiver in anticipation; "How so?"

"...You know that I am not a nice man," one hand caressed his elfin ear so gently that he was almost inclined to disagree, "I take pleasure in violence, and causing pain. But of course I have never done so to a lover; hurt someone badly and you either end up scaring them off or killing them. But you, my dear boy..." the hand slid back down his face, his jawline, to his throat. And all of a sudden, _gripped._

"-Are unkillable," Caelan's hands flew up to lessen Lucien's hold, but he pinned them down with his free arm, "I don't have to hold back. Perhaps that is why I have grown so attached to you."

Just as Caelan was starting to go limp, he let go. The elf fell back onto the bed, gasping for air, half-high on oxygen deprivation.

"You can't die. But I need to know, mer...will you run away?"

He didn't answer – probably didn't even hear him – so Lucien waited for him to recover before continuing. He really _did_ look perfect in the moonlight, just as the assassin had imagined he would. It made him appear a glistening silver instead of gold, like some sort of ethereal, ascended immortal. But then again, he essentially _was._

"Lucien," Caelan called out weakly, "Lucien...drop the chameleon spell."

"Why?" he murmured, undoing the belt at Caelan's waist, "It's exciting this way...to anyone else, it looks as though you're being undressed by thin air."

"Yeah, _I'm_ being undressed. What about you?" the Altmer challenged as he sat up, the dizziness fast fading from his eyes, "How am I supposed to undress you when I can't see you?"

"With your other senses. Namely touch," he guided the slender hands over to his chest, "I'll hold still, to make it easier on you."

"Can't you just drop the spell?" he grumbled, squinting to try and make out Lucien's outline, but it was impossible in the darkness. He slid his hands up, past shoulders and neck; the man still had his hood up, so he pulled it back, and wound his fingers in the long, transparent hair. He could _feel_ it, silken underneath his fingertips, but it looked as though he were just curling his hands in mid-air.

"This is so weird," he muttered, but his eyes held nothing but fascination. He determined the position of Lucien's mouth with one finger, the tentatively leaned forwards to press his lips against the other man. Against _nothingness_, since he could see the door through Lucien; were anyone to enter, it would seem as though he were pretending to smooch the air. But he could feel Lucien reacting – not just the movement of his lips, but the way his chest and shoulders heaved when he pulled back for air, and the subtle twitching of his fingers, trying to remain still but wanting to pin the other man down.

"Caelan..." he heard spoken – more _insisting_ than begging, but it was close enough to make him smirk. Though he doubted Lucien would ever be lowered to pleading for gratification, it thrilled him to know just how close he could take him. But he could tell the man's self-control was wavering, and so he trailed his fingers down until he found a belt to undo. The robes slid off, but there was still more clothing underneath; of course, he shouldn't have expected Lucien to charge around naked underneath that thin layer of material, but it still irritated him, since he wanted to feel _skin._ He started with the leather gauntlets, though soon stopped in surprise.

"What is it?" Lucien asked.

"Your hands...they're soft," he murmured in reply, tracing callous-free fingers and clipped nails, "I expected them to be rougher. Scars and such."

"I have gloves on most of the time," was the explanation, "Couldn't work without them. Hands can betray a lot about your career choice, you know."

"Huh," he held up his own hands, "What do mine tell you?"

"They tell me you have the unfortunate habit of biting your nails," the Speaker answered bluntly, "And you're a Necromancer as well...so unhygienic."

He shrugged, unbothered, "I haven't acquired any diseases so far. Altmer resistances."

"I thought you didn't like being an Altmer?"

"I don't, but I _do_ like being disease-free. Besides, I always wash my hands after working with a corpse-"

"_Caelan._ This is not the time or place."

"Right, sorry," he got to work unbuttoning Lucien's shirt – and, as he slid it off his shoulders, leaned in to catch his scent, "Hm...you smell of nightshade."

"My favourite flower."

"Oh really? Do you like the colour?"

"I like the fact that it kills anything that consumes it. Use it in poisons all the time."

"Bloody alchemist," Caelan muttered. With the shirt gone, all that left was...

His fingers hovered hesitantly above the clothing, the modesty of inexperience catching up with him at last. There was something decidedly _final_ about it, untying the lace fastenings, and slowly dragging the leather material past streamlined hips. Lucien gave no indication of his response, remaining still and silent – in fact, if he didn't know any better, he would have said the man was holding his breath.

"Allow me," he spoke at last when the pants would not go down any further, hindered by Lucien kneeling on the bed. Movement followed, a rustling of fabrics, "There."

"Naked as the day Sithis made you?"

"Yes. _But-_" he swiftly caught Caelan's eager hands, "You, dear boy, are fully dressed. And that's hardly fair..."

"It's hardly fair that I can't see you. Are you planning to stay invisible through the entire thing?"

"I imagine my magicka will run out long before then. So how about...I get rid of those bothersome robes, then I'll drop the spell, hm?"

And so began the same slow, sensual process; Caelan's robes were far less complex, and Lucien didn't need to map his way by touch alone, but he still explored every inch of skin he could find. Although it was odd to see his robes come undone seemingly of their own accord, Caelan soon closed his eyes and forgot about seeing anything, only feeling.

"Caelan," was whispered huskily in his ear, "You do realise I'm no longer invisible?"

He opened his eyes, and _saw_. That musculature – lean torso, strong arms and artisan's hands. He looked paler in the moonlight, almost statue-like – but a statue was a cold, lifeless thing, and he had never seen Lucien look more alive. For once his eyes were not guarded, showing lust and triumph and anticipation...and just a glint of insanity that most would have found frightening, but Caelan really, _really_ wasn't most people.

"Wait-" he leaned forwards, and unfastened the hair-tie, allowing long, inky locks to flow freely over the Imperial's shoulders, "...There. Perfect. So...what happens now?"

"Now?" Lucien grabbed Caelan's arm as the mer pulled it back; one hand locked aggressively around his wrist, while the other carefully intertwined their fingers. Complete and utter contradiction. "I'll show you."


	18. Chapter 18

This thing took me about two weeks to finish. Stupid writer's block...

Also, I feel I ought to explain why I'm depriving you of lemon: this story is rated T. Including anything explicit would take the rating up to M, which means it wouldn't show up on the 'recently updated stories' list – you would have to use the search engine. Which, tactically speaking, loses me potential readers, so it's best to keep the rating as low as I can.

However, if you feel the story is better suited to the M rating, all you have to do is tell me. I don't want this thing getting reported, after all (then I'd have to re-submit everything T-T).

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

_Hm...squishy..._

He knew he was leaning against Lucien purely from the scent, of nightshade and apples and Surilie wine. He could also smell _horse_, and realised he was sat atop Shadowmere, though her movements were slow and careful. Any faster would've thrown Caelan off, no doubt, but Lucien knew how to control his steed.

"Lucien," he mumbled drowsily, still worn out from a very long and very eventful night, "Where're we going?"

"Home," he replied simply.

"What do you...wait..." it occurred to him that he couldn't move his arms, "Why am I tied up?"

"Just in case you were reluctant to leave Anvil."

"...See now," Caelan said with a touch of exasperation, "You're doing that thing again, that thing where you're wonderful and, heaven forbid, _romantic_ one minute, then a complete bastard the next. So I'd really appreciate it if you stopped that."

Lucien said nothing.

He huffed, impatient and irritable; "Stop this horse and untie me this instant."

"And if I don't?"

In response, Caelan thrashed and writhed as much as he was able; a painful landing if he fell off the saddle, but that wasn't his intention. Sure enough, Lucien could not hold him still and steer Shadowmere at the same time, so with a snarl, he brought the horse to a halt and dismounted.

"Good, now untie m- aah!" he shrieked when Lucien hauled him off the saddle, and made no effort to catch his fall.

"I will do no such thing," he told the mer in a low hiss, dragging him roughly upright, "I'm taking you back to Fort Farragut whether you want to go or not."

"But I like Anvil!"

"Unfortunately, Anvil doesn't like _you._"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Think about it," Lucien's lips twisted into a cruel smirk, "A stranger turns up despite having no friends, family or business in Anvil. All of a sudden, Heinrich Oaken-Hull turns up dead at the harbour, just outside the stranger's hotel. Even more suspiciously, the stranger starts acting oddly – as though he's seeing and hearing things no-one else can – then disappears from the town, as if fleeing the scene."

"You-! Did you set up this entire thing just to take me back to Cheydinhal?"

"Actually, no. I didn't know you were staying in Anvil, I was just there on business. Heinrich Oaken-Hull was a marked man," the grin widened, "But the fact that they suspected _you_ serves my purposes just the same. You can't return to Anvil, you do realise. The guards can't do anything to you without solid evidence, but the pirates _can_, and will."

"So now you're dragging me back to Fort Farragut for my own good, I suppose?"

"For _my_ own good," Lucien corrected him, and did not sound apologetic in the slightest, "I...require you to be there. At least until I figure out how to end whatever curse you placed on me."

He shook his head determinedly, "I didn't curse you."

"Well it _feels_ like you did," the assassin snapped, "Do you know what I've done over the past two months? I can't remember. I've been too busy thinking of you, dreaming of you, so much that I haven't paid attention to anything else. I can't make myself stop," he leaned forwards, staring squarely at Caelan, eyes filled with sorrowful anger and bitter lust, "Don't you get it? You've made me co-dependent. I'm utterly obsessed with you."

Caelan's eyes widened; "Obsessed...?"

"Obsessed," Lucien repeated grimly, "So you understand, dear boy, I cannot let you simply walk free. Which is why you _will_ come back to Fort Farragut, regardless of your opinion on the matter. Now...are you going to sit still on Shadowmere, or do I have to tie you to the saddle and let her drag you?"

"...I'll sit on the saddle," Caelan muttered.

"I thought as much."

* * *

Bandits really weren't the brightest of people, it seemed. A black-robed man atop a decidedly demonic-looking horse should have sent them running in the opposite direction, but evidently not. As it were, Lucien was leaving an increasing trail of dead highwaymen and mysteriously empty bandit camps in his wake. Not that Caelan _liked_ bandits, but it was hard not to feel a pang of sympathy when he was watching them fight the Speaker – or rather, watching the Speaker swiftly and systematically dispose of _them._

_He's an assassin. A hired killer, a paid murderer. A ruthless criminal, a vicious sadist, and..._

_...My lover. Sithis, I must be insane._

"Lucien," he spoke one night as they rested in a bandit camp – a smear of blood on the ground the only indication that it had been occupied until recently, "Did you mean what you said? Are you really obsessed with me?"

"You're still thinking about that?" he frowned, since Caelan had been silent on the subject until now, "...And yes. I did, I am, to answer both questions. Why, does it frighten you?"

He shook his head quickly, "No. It probably _should_, but it doesn't," he paused, hesitating, "When did you become obsessed, precisely?"

"Depends. Why do you want to know?"

"Well, ah, it's just..." being tied, he couldn't scratch his head sheepishly, and had to settle for looking at the ground, "...I've never had anyone obsessed with me before. So I was wondering when it came about – and, um, _why_ as well. I mean, I'm an odd person to become obsessed with."

"Perhaps I like you because you're so odd," the assassin murmured in reply, "You have no fear of death...which makes you reckless and outright infuriating at times, because no amount of strangling will make you do as I say. On the other hand, that makes you different to anyone else I've ever met. Because if I do this," he pulled the dagger from its sheathe and dragged it over the Altmer's throat, threatening to cut the skin, "Most would cower and whimper in fear. But you do not."

Caelan grinned and tilted his head upwards to expose more of his neck, "You did this when we first met."

"I did indeed," Lucien nodded, and pressed the knife in, watching the ensuing stream of red, just as he had back in that tiny, book-filled Waterfront shack, "And I knew you were unafraid to die even back then, so maybe that is where my obsession started."

"So are you going to kill me now, like you did last time?"

"Hm...no. If I do, everything will heal up, and your blood will vanish. You _do_ look exquisite covered in red, you know," he made a thoughtful noise, and trailed the blade diagonally over Caelan's face, the bridge of his nose, the curve of his cheek, "Perhaps I shall indulge the thought."

"You know, I would- mmph," Caelan was cut off my Lucien's sudden kiss, but continued as soon as the assassin pulled away, "-I would enjoy this a lot more if I were untied."

"Unfortunately I don't plan on doing so," Lucien shrugged nonchalantly, "So I suppose you're stuck not enjoying yourself, then."

_There really is no reasoning with him,_ thought the mer. But despite his words, the Speaker _did_ seem to be putting in the effort instead of merely satisfying himself, leaving a trail of kisses from lips to jaw to throat that admittedly left Caelan trembling for more.

"Lucien – ah-" his robes were pushed back over his shoulders in search of more skin, kissing then cutting just enough to leave trickles of red down the elf's torso, "Untie my arms."

Lucien laughed lowly, "No."

"But – but – _why not?_"

"You might run away."

"I won't. I swear I won't," he pleaded, wriggling and writhing against the ropes, though he knew it would do him no good, "You know pain doesn't frighten me. I like it, even."

"I'm inclined not to believe you. I can understand the delight of _giving_ pain...but why would anyone want to willingly receive it?"

"Well...it's not so much the pain as how you're going about it. When you do _that_-" he watched Lucien drag the knife from shoulder to hip, leaving a crimson gash in his wake, "You're hurting me, but you're doing it in the name of pleasure, for both of us. It's contradictory. _You're_ contradictory, almost everything about you. You..." he trailed off, reluctant to continue, but eventually decided to go ahead and say it, "You remind me of the Void. Chaotic, so many things that _shouldn't_ work together, but they do."

Lucien stopped to look at him, a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth, "So does this mean you're enjoying it because _I'm_ the one doing it to you?"

"Ah – well – I probably wouldn't be enjoying it were it someone else. At least, not nearly as much."

"Hm," Lucien sat back, still not taking his eyes off Caelan, and tilted his head, "That was almost in love confession territory."

"You're trying to cut me to shreds with a dagger. Anything romantic would ruin the moment."

He grinned, "True enough," the paused thoughtfully. "Though I suppose it's enough to convince me to untie you, for now. Though I shouldn't have to tell you what I'll do if you try to run..."

"I know, I know," he waited impatiently for Lucien to cut the ropes, then wasted no time in jumping on the man with eager lips and hands.

_Just why is he so addictive?_ Lucien mused to himself, allowing the mer to take the lead. Caelan was not one of his more skilful lovers – the ones who knew just where to kiss, to touch; when to gasp and sigh and moan and purr. But what experience he lacked, he made up for in sheer enthusiasm, and unlike those other by-the-book lovers, he only sounded what he felt, not what he thought Lucien wanted to hear. The near-desperation with which he hastily undid the black robes was genuine, as though he would truly die if he could not reach the skin beneath.

He enjoyed _hurting_ Caelan, certainly...but he wanted to _have_ him, to keep that borderline adoration all to himself. Anyone who tried to take the elf from him – anyone who even _considered _it – would be butchered without hesitation, without mercy.

_He's mine. Mine, mine, mine, all mine._ He kissed Caelan, taking the lower lip between his teeth – then bit down, _hard_. Enough to make anyone shriek and pull back, but the mage just kissed back feverishly, the copper taste of blood flooding both their mouths and running down Caelan's already-stained chin. It was only when he pulled back that he realised just how coated Caelan really was; he could almost imagine his skin was red and his blood was gold, such was the ratio. It was...perfect.

"Look at that," Lucien said fondly, then asked, "Are you starting to feel light-headed?"

The Altmer nodded, "Very."

"Then we'd better hurry this up. You're likely to die from blood loss soon," he paused, "I wonder...could that be coordinated? Death at the peak of pleasure?"

"It'd take some seriously good timing. It'd also make you a necrophiliac, technically speaking," and suddenly Caelan got that look on his face, the one that meant he was about to start another stupid discussion, "What _is_ the appeal of necrophilia? I never got it myself. I mean, it'd be _cold_ for a start, and kind of...mushy, depending on the level of decomposition-"

"_Caelan._"

"-Right. Not the time or place. Sorry," he coughed awkwardly, "Continue."

_Honestly,_ the Speaker shook his head, and got back to work.


	19. Chapter 19

Kitty: yeah, I reckon you're right. Truth be told, I've been unsure of the rating for a while – there might be no explicit sex, but there is violence, which is grounds enough for the mature rating. Heh, I might attract smut-seekers, true, but I expect they'll be looking for Lucien/Female. Still...it's been 19 chapters, I've probably attracted all the readers I'm going to get by keeping this at T.

Thusly, people, this story has been moved up to rating M. Suitable it should happen _now_, really, because this chapter isn't exactly T-rated. For those who don't mind Lucien's more sadistic side, keep on a-reading...

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen**

With that unmistakably _satisfied_ feeling that came after both a good kill and a good lay, Lucien awoke luxuriously to the sun shining, the grass swaying, the birds singing...

...And Caelan missing.

_Stay calm._ He snapped awake, looking around the open tent and noticing Caelan's robes were gone also – _stay calm_ – he crawled out of the tent, only just remembering to pull a shirt on, but didn't see the elf sat at the campfire, or anywhere – _stay calm_ – no signs of a struggle, bandits couldn't have carried him off.

"You said you wouldn't run away, mer..."

So he'd gone back on his word. That was fine. Lucien himself had made false promises, had pledged the heart he didn't have to countless lovers – who, if they were lucky, ended up dead instead of broken. After all, a pledge was not a law, and the assassin didn't even follow _those, _so he knew words could be empty, no matter what was said. And really, he shouldn't have trusted the words of a thief anyway. He was surprised all of his belongings were still here, Shadowmere included, but evidently Caelan wasn't pushing his luck. Just running away... running away and leaving a trail of footprints... footprints Lucien was rather keen to follow...

And when he _did_ find Caelan, the mer was trampling noisily through the debris of twigs and leaves, cursing each time his robes got caught on a tree, and making such a racket that he really should've alerted every nearby creature within a mile radius. Sithis, he wasn't even _trying_ to cover his tracks...the thought probably hadn't even crossed his mind.

_He'd make a terrible assassin_. An unfortunate truth. Were the Altmer not completely incapable of subtlety, Lucien might've initiated into him the Brotherhood, then he would at least have a legitimate reason for keeping him close by. But Caelan being, well, _Caelan_, he would get caught during his first contract, and the likes of Adamus Phillida would no doubt trick him into condemning the rest of the sanctuary. Caelan wasn't _stupid_, nor was he susceptible to torture, but he was absent-minded, and would end up mentioning something or someone by mistake.

But that was what would never be – what mattered _now_ was that elf up ahead of him, snagging his robes on every passing branch and whistling some nonsense tune off-key. He didn't even _need_ an invisibility spell, following swift and silent until he very deliberately bumped into him, causing the whistling to cease immediately.

"And _where_," he murmured softly into an elfin ear, pleased to note how Caelan tensed up, "Do you think you're going?"

Caelan was silent for a while, before licking his lips nervously and answering: "...For a walk?"

"A _walk_, was it? I see. You know, Valenwood is only a little further south of here," he leaned further forward, and placed the barest of kisses to the earlobe, "You weren't thinking of running away, were you?"

"Of course not," he could hear Caelan's quickening heartbeat, though it could have been from either pleasure or fear, "Why would I want to run away from you?"

"Oh, a number of reasons," Lucien smirked against the golden skin, then withdrew the dagger he'd brought along, "Coincidentally, they're the same reasons you _don't_ want to run away from me. Catch my drift?"

Caelan reflexively swallowed at the sharp knife-edge playing along his spine, then without warning, ducked and pulled back, slipping under the Speaker's arm and out of his grasp. Admittedly startled at the sudden move, Lucien gave chase, and caught up to him once again as the High Elf climbed frantically up a tree.

"Caelan," he warned, threat creeping into his voice, "Come back down"

"Your tone suggests that might be detrimental to my health."

"_Caelan_," he repeated, fists tightening, "Come down here. _Now_."

"I don't want to- no!" came the half-shriek when Lucien started climbing the tree. After avoiding him for as long as possible, Caelan jumped back down, and without further ado, ran like hell.

_Damnitalltohell, this is what I get for sleeping with an assassin._ He could hear Lucien behind him, though at least he didn't seem to be catching up – Caelan was physically frail, certainly, but he could damn well run when he wanted to, because if he was caught...well, it wasn't so much a matter of _I'mgonnadie_ but _I'mgonnawishIcoulddie._ Lucien was capable of terrible things, and that was when he _hadn't_ lost his temper.

_He has to calm down eventually_, Caelan reasoned, _I'll just come back in a day or so and try reasoning with him- wait a minute..._

He couldn't hear footsteps. Even when he slowed his pace, there was no sound of pursuit, and when he finally stopped to turn around, his followed was nowhere to be seen. He glanced around the trees, but saw no-one hiding, just empty forest. For a moment he thought the Speaker had given up the chase, until he realised...

"Damnit Lucien," he whined, "You can't cast an invisibility spell! That's cheating!"

Though he was certain the man was in hearing range, he received no reply. He had no idea where Lucien was, nor which direction in which to run, leaving him only to stumble and stammer unsurely around the forest clearing.

"This isn't- ah!" he felt something latch onto his robes, but whipped around only to see he had gotten caught on a branch again, "-Isn't fair..." he finished weakly, pulling himself free.

"Since when have I played fair, dear boy?"

He gave an inelegant shriek and ducked instinctively; and not a moment too soon, as he felt Lucien's attempted grab miss him by inches. A low, impatient growl warned him where the Speaker was standing, and he flung himself in the opposite direction, tearing through grass and wild flowers with an unseen predator on his heels, running, running, until-

_Bandit camp...?_

But no bandits. Just an all-too-familiar smear of blood on the ground – and, grazing idly by one of the tents, an all-too-familiar black horse with unblinking red eyes.

_He chased me right back to where I ran from!_

"Allow me to make one thing clear," he heard hissed, and felt the cold knife-blade against his throat, "You are not allowed to leave unless I tell you to. You are _most certainly_ not allowed to trick me into untying you with false promises and confessions."

"They weren't false," Caelan assured him, tone pleading, "I want to stay with you, I just don't want to be a prisoner."

"Well you're _going_ to be, whether you like it or not. How difficult I make your life depends on how difficult you make mine...so at least _act_ like you have an ounce of common sense, and co-operate like a good possession."

The elf swallowed harshly; "I'm not-"

"Yes," Lucien interrupted calmly, "You are."

Caelan sighed and closed his eyes: _I don't want to do this..._

_...But you leave me no choice._

The shock spell crackled from his fingertips, and sent Lucien flying back a few good feet. Though by Caelan's careful measurement the spell did not do too much damage, the surprise of actually being attacked left the assassin reeling on the floor, barely able to hear the boy's hurried apology before he ran away. It was only when rage settled in that he got back to his feet, streaking after Caelan with a speed he didn't know he was capable of, and a blistering fury in his veins so great that he felt it would burn him alive. Unsurprisingly, the Altmer could not make it away in time, and yelped as Lucien gripped his shoulders, throwing him effortlessly to the ground before climbing atop him, weapon in hand.

"You-" was the hellish snarl, too feral to be called human, "-Belong-" the dagger was brought down with such force that it splintered the mer's ribs like straw and pierced his heart without mercy – violent, savage, ruthless, "-To _me!_"

"L-" and the name was never finished, because blood erupted from his mouth, cutting off all speech with coughs and splutters. But Lucien did not stop, bringing the blade down over and over again, for once without glee, but only an uncontrolled, primordial rage born of a man obsessed.

He stopped, eventually, when the thing beneath his hands was not Caelan, but a lifeless corpse with glassy eyes and mutilated chest. But the wound was already healing, even as it still blossomed red onto both of them.

"Sithis damn you," he spat at the body, though he knew it couldn't hear him – but perhaps that was why he could curse so freely, "I hate you, and I hate what you've made me into. I almost wish you _could_ die, then I would be able to forget you."

Then none of this would have happened in the first place. He would still be the same old Lucien Lachance, going about his business as he always had; deriving pleasure from his kills, boredom from his paperwork, and mild amusement from the conquests left wanting in his wake. Though he could not imagine living without Caelan, he couldn't help but feel he had been better off before, conscience-less and carefree. When he had laughed at those poor fools obsessing over him...and now, he had become one.

Beneath him, Caelan twitched, life restored in the wide-open eyes and the last of the blood fading from his chest and mouth. Though he made no frantic movements to escape, still too dazed by the display of brutality, Lucien wasn't about to take any chances. He wordlessly slung the elf over one shoulder and headed the short distance back to the camp, oddly serene after that vicious, possessive outburst. Of all his possible troubles and worries, the only thought in his head was how light Caelan was.

"Lucien," the Altmer spoke at last, though he did not attempt to break free, or even remotely struggle, "I don't want to be a prisoner."

And Lucien answered, quiet and calm: "I don't care."

Caelan said nothing, not even as the Imperial tied him up once more, though this time with tighter ropes and more intricate knots. There was no resistance, no protest, barely a blink as he was placed again on Shadowmere's saddle, the journey to Cheydinhal continued. It was somewhat unnerving; he had seen Caelan's more serious side recently, in itself a rare sight to behold, but he had never encountered this, a silent and solemn acceptance of fate. And truthfully, it bothered him more than he cared to admit.


	20. Chapter 20

It's about time Mannimarco's curse came into play, hm?

* * *

**Chapter Twenty**

"Here."

Caelan stared aimlessly at the plate of food before him; as it could not fit through the bars of his cage, it was placed just outside, though within easy reach. Venison, bread, and a helping of vegetables were among the serving – in the very least, being Lucien's prisoner meant getting fed three rather luxurious meals a day.

Normally Lucien just placed it down and walked away, oddly cold for someone who claimed to be obsessed; then again, Caelan hadn't spoken a word, and he would not have responded had the assassin tried to initiate conversation. However, today proved different, as Lucien did not leave, but stayed to sit and stare at the Altmer, who in turn was gazing at the plate of food, and making no move to touch it.

"Well? Aren't you hungry?"

Nothing.

"You didn't touch anything yesterday either."

Nothing.

"There's no point in trying to starve yourself if you'll just come back. I went to the trouble of making that, you might as well eat it."

Nothing.

"Caelan," Lucien spoke flatly, "I am growing impatient with this childish pout. Stop sulking and answer my questions. It's the least you can do for the courtesy I've shown you."

"...You're keeping me in a cage," the mer replied at last, some of the sarcasm lost due to how rough and scratchy his voice sounded – not so much from disuse, as it had been less than a week, but from dehydration, pointedly ignoring the wine Lucien had placed before him.

"I do so to prevent another foolhardy escape attempt. And I already explained why I can't just let you walk away."

"If you truly can't get by without me," there was something cold and poisonous about Caelan's words, an accusing spite that didn't suit him at all, "Why didn't you just tie me to your bed and be done with it?"

Lucien's eyes flashed dangerously, none too happy with what Caelan was implicating him of doing – or thinking of doing; "Stupid boy, this isn't about lust," he snapped, "It is your presence that enables me to function, hence why I have to keep you here."

"But you're not functioning," the elf pointed out, "I saw you trying to get to sleep last night, though I don't know why you even bothered. And I don't know why you're keeping me around if I'm not making any difference."

A part of him was pleased Caelan had been watching him despite the cold shoulder, but nonetheless: "That's because you aren't acting like yourself. I grew attached to _you_, not your body, appealing as it is. You haven't started up one stupid conversation all week."

"And I'm supposed to be my nonchalant self while caged like a pet rodent, am I?" was the reply, deadpan rather than fierce, "If you would just give me my freedom back..."

"For the love of Sithis, we've been over this." Lucien groaned in exasperation, "I _can't._ If I have to go without you again, it would...well, I don't know. I don't want to know. At least this way I can be sure you won't leave, despite your presence not helping matters much."

"But I won't leave," Caelan insisted; though he had tried this before without success, maybe this time, maybe... "I really do like you. Frequent strangling and all. So if you let me go, I would – I might leave the fort, but I would always come back. Promise."

"Unfortunately, the last time you made such a declaration, I awoke to find you gone."

"I panicked, okay? It's not like I would've been able to stay away for long...I just didn't want to end up in a cage, like this one."

"You might not have, if you had just kept your word. Alas, logic is not your speciality." There was a long, drawn-out silence, which Lucien again took upon himself to break: "The food will get cold."

"...I don't want it."

"I already told you, there's no point in a hunger strike. It won't change my mind, and being unkillable defeats the purpose anyway."

"It's not that," the High Elf mumbled, glancing warily at the food, "That stuff is tasteless. I can't stomach it, it's like eating cardboard."

Lucien frowned; "Tasteless? That can't be. I always give you variety."

"Change your food source, then. It can't be great quality if it doesn't taste of anything."

"I use the same food supply _I_ eat from – and I, dear boy, only dine on the best," he could afford to be fussy, after all. Compensation for residing in a crumbling fort instead of a mansion, every meal was a sensualists feast. He helped himself to some of Caelan's meal regardless, just to check it had been prepared correctly, and he could safely say that it _had_. "There, that's not tasteless. No excuses, Caelan."

"It's not an excuse. I don't taste anything," he argued before taking an experimental bite of the venison, and pulling a face that couldn't have been faked, "The delightful flavour of gravel. I'd rather go hungry, thanks."

"Something is wrong with your tongue, then. Are you ill?" he studied the mer shrewdly, suspiciously, "You haven't caught anything off that Bosmer pirate, I hope."

"For the last time, Lucien, I didn't sleep with him-"

"Did I say that?" Though Caelan had no doubt he had _meant_ it, "Anyway, diseased or not, you need to eat. You're scrawny enough as it is."

"I thought I was supposed to be 'appealing'?"

"Stop that. You sound like a jaded housewife. And stop changing the subject, you need food."

"Hmph." Caelan pushed the plate away from him with one finger and a decidedly haughty expression – looking, for the first time, like an actual Altmer. Lucien might have laughed about it were his mood not so black, and further darkened by the rejection of food he had carefully prepared.

"Insufferable boy," he snarled, getting back to his feet, "Fine, sit there and starve. If you'll just revive to full health, I might as well not bother feeding you."

Caelan waited wordlessly until he had stormed from the room before taking another bite of the meal. Still tasted like cardboard.

_But why...?

* * *

_

It was only a day or so after this discussion that Lucien left Fort Farragut to attend to his Speaker duties – or so he claimed, but Caelan had the feeling he just wanted to escape the coldness of the fort, by which he didn't mean temperature.

There had been no progress as far as conversation went, but the Altmer's silent was not purely out of spite. He had been considering Lucien's admittance, that he was obsessed with _Caelan_, not the thought of bedding him. Which, far from being repelled, Caelan was rather flattered by, especially since he returned the sentiment. He _did_ enjoy Lucien's company, grisly as it often was, and he was entirely happy to belong to the man, he just didn't want to be kept in a cage. Really now, there was a line to be drawn.

Which was why he had spent the last day devising a rather brilliant plan, even if he did say so himself. After all, if Lucien truly _was_ obsessed with him, that included being obsessed with his sneakier and more thief-like traits...getting out of cages, for example.

Except..._ Oh, that fetcher._ His lockpicks were missing. He supposed he shouldn't have expected Lucien to overlook such a detail, clever bastard that he was. Caelan was also a clever bastard, however, and as such he always had a backup plan. Namely...

_Unlock._ He willed his magicka at the cage door, felt the hum of the Alteration spell, and heard the faint click as a single tumbler rose into place. It wasn't enough, though, as the door remained stuck fast. Evidently this would take some more skill.

_Unlock, unlock, unlock, unlock!_ Or at least a mental mantra anyway. Lucien had chosen a woefully difficult lock for the door, but years of nosing through people's valuables had made Caelan rather good at this particular spell. After draining most of his magicka, the final tumbler of the lock clicked into place, and the door finally swung open.

"Freedom at la...oh. Ohh, my legs," he moaned piteously at the ache that came with a week of imprisonment. It took him hobbling over to the desk to realise he wouldn't be getting anywhere like this, and so he snatched one of the nearby poison bottles and downed it in one gulp. Death came swiftly, and seemed somehow even more unpleasant than before, but he assumed he was just out of practise, so to speak. Not being killed in a while made the iciness linger a little longer, and left the sour aftertaste of bile in his throat; still, his muscles no longer complained of disuse, and so he grabbed a piece of parchment, and scrawled out his message to Lucien.

This was a magnificent plan indeed.

* * *

There had been a time, Lucien reflected, when silence had been welcome as far as Caelan's company was concerned. He'd longed for the peace and quiet, _hungered_ for it. Then, it Caelan's absence, he'd grown less fond of it – and now that the Altmer was back, but infuriatingly tight-lipped, he outright despised it.

_Why does that little fetcher always do the opposite of what I want?_

Now some surliness was to be expected – even if Caelan put up with far worse treatment than most, he was bound to protest at being locked away. But, as Lucien had explained repeatedly, with less patience each time, it had to be done. Caelan had already been granted his freedom and had tried to run away, and in doing so had turned the assassin into a...a...

..._Thing._ He almost sickened himself; not what he had done, because he had inflicted far worse before, but with his mindset at the time, that complete and utter lack of control. He had never encountered that before...even his first kill had been cold, methodical, his dagger used with perfect precision, not wildly stabbing and slashing like an untamed animal. He prided himself on the absolute mastery he had over his own emotions, which was why to give into them like that was simply unacceptable. But he had been so _angry_, so overwhelmed with rage and hatred that his self-control hadn't stood a chance.

Simply put, he did not want a repeat performance.

And thus, Caelan was imprisoned, because he just couldn't trust the mer to keep his frantic promises. And he had tried to put him at ease, lack of freedom aside. He'd kept him in the main chamber as opposed to one of the darker, damper rooms, given him clean bedding and a generous amount of food each day...and he hadn't demanded any sort of gratification in return, although in all honesty, he hadn't _wanted_ to. Stony silence did wonders for extinguishing passion, after all.

But back on topic, he was showing Caelan far more courtesy than he had ever given _anyone_ in his lifetime. He didn't expect a song and dance routine, but the cold shoulder he was being given was entirely unfair. It was also making him miss Caelan – the old, familiar Caelan – moreso than ever, and he could feel the restlessness starting to gnaw away at him once more. Why couldn't things just be as they were?

He continued to lament this loss, even as he departed the sanctuary, contracts passed along, and headed rather reluctantly back to Fort Farragut. Perhaps he could charm him into his old self again...a tried-and-true seduction with a bit of pain thrown in, since Caelan seemed to like that. Unless he had been pretending, to lure Lucien into a false sense of security with his own escape in mind...had he? He didn't think the mer was that good of an actor, but then he had also thought Caelan would never attack him.

Perhaps he enjoyed pain, perhaps he didn't. There was a rather practical way of finding out...

He used Fort Farragut's secret entrance, descending down the ladder before turning around with a greeting of: "Caelan-"

The cage was empty.

It hit him like a tidal wave, though it took a least a minute before he truly comprehended what he was seeing. The cage was empty. The cage was _empty._ How was that even possible? He'd been sure to search Caelan as he slept and remove all of his lockpicks, even the ones sewn into the lining of his robes, and yet the Altmer had _still_ managed to trick him in a way that was so...so...

..._Caelan._

_Isn't this what you wanted?_ Some vague inner voice told him – perhaps his conscience, if it were to be believed that he still had one. And he had to agree, escaping the assassin without considering the consequences was probably the most Caelan-like thing Caelan had done all week. But regardless of the slight relief he felt, the greater part of him was thoroughly angry at the defiance, and the realisation that he would have to hunt down the missing elf _yet again_.

"And find a better lock," he muttered, seeing that the cage door had been opened, not broken or forced. It was then that his gaze dropped down, and he realised there was a piece of parchment left where Caelan had once been. A final message? He wondered if it was a simple goodbye or a stream of insults, but when he did unfold it, he was more than confused:

_If Dive Rock was Jive Rock, would people dance there instead of commit suicide?_

"What...?" he frowned, turning the paper over to see if there was any other writing, but that was the only message. It made so little sense that he had to wonder if it had been intended for him, and not something Caelan had scrawled out of boredom during his imprisonment; but that couldn't be, the elf hadn't had access to ink and parchment until he had escaped the cage. So it must have been deliberately left for him, but it was such an odd parting message...

_...Unless it isn't a parting message._

It was strange, how Caelan had left the cage door wide open, as if to draw attention to it – when really he should have left a decoy, something to keep Lucien fooled as he ran as far away as possible. No supplies had been taken, no property had been sabotaged out of spite...though he was nowhere to be seen, there was no indication of a grand escape. Which meant the note was not a goodbye, but a _come and find me_.

Unless he was being led away from Cheydinhal purposefully, so he would be distracted...but Shadowmere was as fast as a horse could get, and she could take him to Dive Rock and back in record time. Besides, after the week he'd endured, it was a small relief to see Caelan back to his more light-hearted self. Of course, Lucien still intended to drag him back to Fort Farragut after catching him, but he could indulge in some chasing first.

_Dive Rock it is._


	21. Chapter 21

Another chapter, and Caelan's game continues ^-^.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One**

The wind was icy-cold in these winter months, whipping at his robes and whatever skin it could reach, forcing his hood down and tugging mercilessly at long brunet hair. Caelan wasn't here. He'd been disappointed at first, believing himself to have come all this way for naught, while the mer merrily made his escape in the opposite direction. But then he caught sight of another note, securely pinned under a rock but still fluttering in the gale, as if trying to escape. He recognised the untidy handwriting, and the message could surely have only come from Caelan:

_What is the colour of Night?

* * *

_

_He accepted,_ Caelan thought rather eagerly, scurrying from place to place with parchment in hand. He'd watched from afar as Lucien departed for Dive Rock, meaning he'd both received and accepted Caelan's instructions. Just as well, as he could have quite easily disregarded them and gone looking for the Altmer – and then his carefully calculated plan would have gone to waste.

_Things can be just like they used to be._ He hadn't played around like this in over two months; even after meeting up with Lucien again, they had been so caught up in the sex and kidnapping and other such fun things that they hadn't actually established that odd, half-teasing half-throttling relationship they used to have. He rather missed the days of meaningless conversation, messing around with Lucien's Alchemy ingredients, helping himself to poison apples, and overall _annoying_ the man, because it never really got old. Granted, he got strangled for it more often than not, but of course it didn't affect him. A terrifying prospect for most, getting murdered over the slightest provocation, but for Caelan being killed was the equivalent of a stern telling-off.

Though Lucien truly was frightening when he was angry...but not so much as to scare Caelan away for good. He was still unafraid, and what better way to show it than by leading him on a chase? And if, by the end of it, Lucien decided to reward his efforts with a knife through his neck, so be it.

He would have to hurry, though, if he didn't want Lucien to catch him mid-game. After all, Shadowmere moved in a _blur_ when she wanted to, and Lucien was no doubt heading back to Cheydinhal this very moment, to continue the hunt.

* * *

It was a little annoying, riding all the way to Dive Rock only to be directed back to Cheydinhal – but he suspected it was a mere distraction while Caelan set up more instructions. And he turned out to be right, as pinned to the wall by the sanctuary door was yet another note. Not pinned to the door itself, he noticed with some amusement, though he had to wonder if Caelan had tried...after all, it had the habit of retaliating against anyone who tried to attack or deface it.

_How do you ride and march at the same time?_

"Ride and march...?" he repeated slowly, momentarily confused, but it didn't take him long to figure it out: "The March Rider."

At least Caelan wasn't spanning his game over the whole of Cyrodil. A chase around Cheydinhal it was, then, though he contemplated when and where it would end. Destination in mind, he strode out the way he had come, leaving the abandoned house as little more than a passing shadow in the night.

Cheydinhal truly was beautiful in the winter; beautiful all year round, really, but especially now, in Lucien's favourite season. There was no snow tonight, but the grass was frozen in place by frost, and the river was coated in a sheet of ice too thin to walk on. The night air was cool and crisp, twin moons suspended in the obsidian-black sky, and wispy clouds so faint that they were barely there at all. The March Rider was shut, of course, but there was still a note stuck to the door with that familiar, hurried scrawl:

_If the Fighters Guild fights, why doesn't the Mages Guild mage?_

"To the Guild, then," he murmured, rather glad that it was the dead of night; he'd have attracted some odd looks otherwise, following a string of notes from one place to the next. But as it were, the only passers-by were the patrolling city guards, who were too busy shivering with cold to notice a man half-shrouded in darkness.

Upon arriving at the Mages Guild, he found a decidedly short note: _Well what about wells?_

"Wells...?" at first he thought of the sanctuary entrance, until he spotted the well inconspicuously located behind the Guild. Tucked between the grate cover, another note, impossible to spot unless it was being searched for:

_Are assassins any good at climbing chapels?_

He glanced over at the chapel of Arkay, visible from just about everywhere in Cheydinhal, given how tall and imposing it was. _Oh for the love of Sithis...maybe I should just go looking for him. At least that way I won't risk being arrested by the city watch._ Not that chapel-climbing was an offence, last he recalled, but attracting the attention of the guards was never a good idea. Plus it was probably freezing up there, dangerous too. In fact, he'd more or less convinced himself to give up the game, when he saw a distinctly golden figure scaling up one side of the chapel.

_Caelan?_ Well, that was certainly enough to change his mind. He only just remembered to cast chameleon on himself before tearing after the fearless mer, who by the time Lucien had reached the building, had managed to hoist himself into the roof. It was a small wonder that he hadn't been seen by a guard, since he was making no real efforts to conceal himself.

Thankfully assassins _could_ climb, and rather skilfully at that, since vantage points were the quickest and easiest way to scout out a target. And so Lucien was able to quickly pursue the Altmer, pulling himself up with little nooks and ledges that decorated the building. And when he eventually got to the top...

* * *

Caelan stood atop the chapel, peering down at the beauty that was Cheydinhal, like a miniature toy town from this far up. The note for Lucien's next destination was still in his hand, and by now he should have been hurrying to continue the game, but something was very, very wrong.

_I can't feel the wind._

There was a fairly strong gale up here. There _had_ to be, because he could see his robes being lifted, his hair fluttering about. But he felt no sensation on his skin, no bitter cold or whisper of movement.

_But that's impossible. Why can't I-_

"So _there_ you are."

The voice startled him from his thoughts, and he spun around to see the black-robed man, hood up but smirk still visible, even in the relative darkness; "Lucien?"

"Who else would follow you up here?" the Speaker's gaze dipped down to the note in Caelan's hand, "Since I've caught you, does this means the game ends early?"

"It's coming to a close soon enough anyway."

"Present tense? That means we haven't finished," Lucien tilted his head, dark eyes glittering, "So what's to stop me just grabbing you and hauling you back right now?"

"Because I can get off this building far quicker than you can," Caelan answered with his own self-assured smile, and swiftly impaled the parchment on the chapel spire, "Adieu."

"Wait-" and he fell, rather effortlessly, backwards from the church roof, against the wind he couldn't feel, and down.

_Crunch._

When he opened his eyes thirty seconds later, he was hit by a wave of dizzying nausea unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. For all the times he had been killed, he'd never felt physically sick afterwards, in fact he'd always been just fine...so what in Oblivion was happening to him?

_Something's wrong..._ he checked himself over, but he wasn't at all injured – as usual, he had been restored to perfect health.. And yet he trembled even as he got to his feet, the nausea fading but still fresh in his mind. That had never happened before, never...

"Hey!" and Imperial voice, and for a moment he thought Lucien had actually caught up with him – surely not possible, as the assassin could not jump down as he had – but it turned out to be a somewhat panicked Cheydinhal guard, "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"Hurt?" he asked with feigned innocence, "Why would I be hurt?"

"I thought...I thought I saw..." the man frowned, evidently re-assessing what he had just witnessed, "I could've sworn you just jumped from the roof of the chapel..."

"The roof, you say? No, you must be mistaken. No-one could survive a fall like that," he glanced up at the building for good measure; he couldn't see as far as the roof, nor could he see Lucien, "I came from inside the chapel. The cold must be making you see things."

"Yeah, you must be right..." he didn't look entirely convinced, but he couldn't argue otherwise. After all, Caelan spoke the truth: no-one _could_ jump from that kind of height...

With the guard walking away in puzzlement, and Lucien sufficiently distracted as he tried to get back down from the chapel, Caelan strolled quite casually to his next destination, a nonchalant expression hiding his inwardly concerned thoughts.

* * *

Lucien cursed silently at Caelan's daredevil exit, leaving him alone on the top of a particularly high chapel. He was infuriatingly right – the assassin could not simply jump off and land unscathed. Technically neither could Caelan, but that was beside the point. Without the luxury of carelessness, Lucien would have to climb back down the way he came.

But first, the note; being hastily impaled on the chapel spire had obscured some of the writing, but after smoothing the parchment out, he was able to read the message: _The thing is, there's no black water anywhere._

Black water...ah, Black Waterside stables. A rather foolish move on Caelan's part, since Lucien could swiftly pursue him into the wildness. After all, that was where...Shadowmere...was...

_Oh Caelan, you wouldn't._

_Yes, yes you would. Maybe if I climb down fast enough..._

It was a pointless endeavour, and he knew it. He had hoped Shadowmere would disobey Caelan, or at least kick up enough of a fuss to stall him, but the Altmer had a way of persuading her to do as he said. At least it wasn't broad daylight, that would have been embarrassing, but at this hour the only strange looks he received were from the remaining animals.

He thought for a moment Caelan had not left a note, simply escaped with Shadowmere to who-knew-where, and used the game simply as a distraction...but then he spotted a familiar slip of parchment protruding from a trough of hay, and managed to grab it before it was eaten by one of the horses.

_When does a goose chase ever involve geese?_

"Goose cha..." Oh. Oh that annoying, frustrating, brilliant little mer. It made perfect sense now that he thought about it, that the chase would end where it began; but then he hadn't actually expected Caelan to go back to Fort Farragut, especially after being imprisoned there for a week. He folded the parchment idly, then realised there was something written on the back:

_I guess you'll be walking, huh._

"I shall most certainly _not_," he answered with a smirk he couldn't suppress, even though there was no-one around to hear. Caelan seemed to forget that someone with no qualms over killing was quite content to _steal_ as well. And so he hauled himself onto the saddle of another black horse, the creature immediately obedient to his commands, and began the journey back home.


	22. Chapter 22

What with this being rated M now, this chapter is a little more...risqué than the others.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

After arriving at his home and giving his temporary steed a good shove back in the direction of Cheydinhal, Lucien entered the fort to find Caelan sat on his bed, drumming his fingers against the frame just as he had done when they first met. It wasn't actually that long ago, the assassin mused, though it felt as though he had known Caelan for years. Strange, really, because when he thought about it, there were only a handful of facts he knew about the boy. Then again, there was only so much Caelan knew of _him_.

When he faced the elf, his first question was: "So how did you get out of the cage?"

"After you took my lockpicks, you mean?" the Altmer idly examined his fingernails, but a grin still tugged at his lips, "A spell here, a spell there..."

"I thought your field was Conjuration?"

"Oh, it is. I just happen to be a dab hand at Alteration as well. Constantly breaking into locked chests and struggling to pick up heavy objects trains you up soon enough."

"Hm. I shall have to find a way to silence you, then, if I put you back in there."

"But you're not going to, right?" Caelan asked – despite his best efforts at nonchalance, he still sounded hopeful. He _had_ to be hopeful, because there was every chance that Lucien would keep to his word and lock him away again. "I told you, I won't run away...doesn't the fact that I'm sitting here talking to you prove that? I could have gone when I had the opportunity if I really wanted to escape."

"Perhaps...or you could be lulling me into a false sense of security so you can depart another time."

"Again with the suspicion...are all assassins this paranoid?"

"You give me reason to be. I know full well you're not above manipulation."

Caelan smirked, because he had long stopped being ashamed of his decidedly low morals; "Neither are you."

"No, I'm not," Lucien agreed, "I suppose we're as bad as each other in that regard."

He'd never really considered it before, but he and Caelan were actually quite alike. Not in terms of personality – certainly not, they were polar opposites – but that only masked the traits they shared. Caelan was no killer, but he was a thief and a grave robber; he had no hesitation in hurting others for his own personal gain, just as Lucien casually disregarded the pleas of his victims, and watched impassively as others grieved over their fallen beloved. Both outright ignored the laws, both legal and social, and high morals of their kind. And of course, both shared the same macabre interest in death: Caelan as a Necromancer, Lucien as a murderer.

All 'bad' traits to have in common, he realised. But since when had he cared what others deemed good or evil?

"Lucien?" the Altmer asked, tilting his head when the assassin approached, and idly stroked his sandy hair. They were different, so very different...but because of that, Lucien had completely missed how similar they were as well. "What is it?"

_I don't want to let him go._

"...Just a passing thought," he murmured distractedly, then asked: "Caelan...are you going to run away again?"

"Didn't I just say I wouldn't?"

"I can't stop you if you do," he continued despite the answer, "I can hunt you down and drag you back, but I can't prevent you wriggling free again. I can't keep you chained and silenced, and I can't scare you into obedience with pain. There's truly nothing I could do."

"But I'm not going anywhere," Caelan glanced at him uneasily, "I'm not sure if I like your defeatist side. Go back to threatening me, would you?"

He gave him a weary look and a half-hearted attempt: "Leave again and I'll break every bone in your body."

"Terrible," Caelan shook his head, a playful smirk around his lips and a mischievous glint in his eyes: "That'll never convince me to stay. Try again."

_I suppose I can humour him. _"Leave again, and-" he tugged on the mer's hair a little harder than he needed to, satisfied at the wince it caused, "I'll crush your heart while it's still beating inside your chest."

"Hm...I like the symbolism, but you can do gorier than that. Come on," the smirk became a grin, telling his to promise pain – to _cause_ pain, "Give me everything you've got."

Lucien flashed him a charming smile, and in a second had him slammed up against the wall, iron-grip fingers curled around the slender throat, both hands this time; "Leave again," he spoke in his huskiest, most dangerous voice, "And I'll carve out your entrails and make you eat them, understood?"

Caelan had to spend a few good minutes prying Lucien's fingers away before he could wheeze an answer: "N-not sure if I do, actually..."

"Then allow me to continue," he loosened his hold a little – he didn't want Caelan to die, not yet – but dug his fingers into the skin hard enough to leave a scattering of bruises, "I'll pull out all your fingernails...gouge out your eyes, but leave your ears intact so you can hear yourself scream," a soft laugh, because Caelan's eyes had gone quite wide, "Cut you a smile and watch you wrench your own jaw apart, then wire it all back together again and let you _live._"

"You're twisted, you know that?" Caelan managed to gasp out, still struggling and flailing against uselessly against Lucien's grasp.

"Quite so. It's a requirement to become a Speaker, I believe. Though you realise...the fact that you willingly accept it – _encourage_ it, even – makes you every bit as wrong as I am, if not more so."

"Touché. So what happens if I _don't_ run away?"

"Then I promise to only hurt you when I'm angry or annoyed," a pause, "Or bored. Or lonely, or happy, or trying to show you how much I care."

"So basically, whenever you feel like it?"

"Clever boy. You should know by now that murder is always on my mind...why, does that scare you?"

"Absolutely," he smiled, and fondly twined his fingers in Lucien's hair, "I like you that way. Don't ever change."

"Hm...only if you don't get _too_ scared, and run. You won't run again, will you?"

"I hadn't planned on it. You won't lock me away again, will you?"

"I see no reason to," his grip stopped being a throttle and became a caress, idly touching the bruises he had just caused, "I don't particularly like seeing you caged. It certainly killed the passion. Although now that you're free... it's been a while..."

"It's been a week," Caelan pointed out, amused.

"It's been a while," Lucien repeated, "And I had something in mind..."

"Oh really? What is it?"

"I mentioned it a while back...something about death at the peak of pleasure?"

The transition from amused to shocked was instant, and decidedly priceless: "You're not serious, are y- aah!" Lucien's hands sneaked between Caelan's robes, and he wore an equally snake-like smirk as he began his devious plan.

"Oh, but I _am_ serious," he said, although Caelan was too busy whimpering to really listen, "It's something I've always wanted to try, actually...suffice to say, I haven't had the opportunity until now."

"Lucien-!" the High Elf choked, hands clenching at the black robe-material around Lucien's shoulders, "Don't know why – I put up with – this!"

"Come on. You can't possibly tell me you're not enjoying yourself," he leaned in a little further, closing the gap between them until their lips almost touched, and murmured silkily against the skin, "Tell me when you're getting close. I want to time this right." Caelan shivered suddenly, mouthed something he couldn't hear; "What was that? Speak a little louder."

"I said your voice is nice," Caelan mumbled, seemingly sheepish with his own confession, "When it goes raspy like that. It's...nice."

"When I talk like _this_, you mean?" he purred as low as he could go, pleased to note the mer's shudder of delight, "I'm flattered that you think so. Perhaps I should do it more often, if it reduces you to this state."

"Well, your hand is helping with that cause," he glanced down, then away again, flustered, "I'm getting close, by the way."

"Mm, you can still form coherent sentences. Not quite there yet, but perhaps if I do _this_-" there was a sharp gasp as he abruptly changed rhythm, "-That's better. How does that feel?" Caelan made an unintelligible noise, "_Now_ we're getting somewhere."

"L-Lucien, I – I'mnot – stop – _don'tstop!_" he practically screeched when the assassin paused, "I – ohmy – ah-"

_Two minutes. Why, that's a new record,_ Lucien thought rather smugly, bringing his free hand up to Caelan's neck. He would have liked strangulation, to see Caelan's cheeks go from flushed pink to lifeless white, to watch the very life ebb away from him in the throes of pleasure – but choking could be unpredictable, the time of death depending on the individual, and he wanted this to be as accurate as possible. He located the fragile bones, so much brittler than any other victim he had claimed, so easy to snap with a single movement.

And so, Caelan's ragged cry became his dying breath.

Then, Lucien noted with some amusement, Caelan's body restored itself to it's previous state – and not simply the broken neck.

The Altmer shuddered back to life within thirty seconds as per usual – but something was amiss, Lucien noticed at once. His eyes seemed unfocused, his breathing laboured, and there was a slight tremble in his shoulders.

"Caelan," he asked with a frown; when the elf looked up at him, he was squinting, as though trying to make out details, "What is it?"

"I...I can't see right," a note of panic crept into his voice, "There's no colour. You have no colour. Lucien, what's going on?"

"Sshh, calm down, it's probably the light playing tricks on you. Blink a few times...better?"

"No, I-" he paused when his vision suddenly flickered into normality, and Lucien was no longer black and grey but bursting with colour – from the rich brown of his eyes to the faint rosiness of his lips to the cold blue light framing his angular features, "...Wait. Now it's back again. What just happened?"

"Perhaps the death was a little too intense for you," Lucien sounded more proud than concerned, "Was it intense?"

"Of course, but..." he tugged anxiously at his sleeve, "That's never happened before. Not once..."

"Don't fret over it. We won't do it again if it was too much for you," he gave a contemplative smirk, "Well, not often...I did enjoy myself, though."

Caelan was too lost in thought to give a reply.

* * *

He stood not far from Fort Farragut, waist-deep in wildflowers and swaying grass, the chill of the coming winter nipping at his skin, even with his thick robes wrapped around him.

_I can feel the wind again._

His relief only served to remind him what it had felt like without it – that numb, cold sensation atop the Arkay chapel, seeing and hearing the gale but unable to feel it. But at least it had been only temporary, and the breeze currently playing through his hair was welcomed, if rather icy.

That was three separate happenings now, and it was impossible to ignore. The incident of the chapel, which had now righted itself...the colour-blindness a few hours prior in Fort Farragut, which had only lasted a few seconds...and his deprivation of taste, which...

He glanced down at the poisoned apple in his hand uneasily. The meals Lucien gave him were as bland as ever, but he was starting to realise the problem was not with the food, but with _him_. The apple would inform him if this was the case – because if he could not taste the poison, something was definitely wrong – but he was reluctant to try it. Each time he died, things seemed to get worse.

Being revived was starting to bring with it a dizzying nausea, an undeniably _sick_ feeling that lingered long after his trip to the Void. This hadn't happened before; dying had even been his way of rejuvenating, waking up free of hunger, tiredness or disease, just as he had been when he bound the Staff. But now he felt light-headed, weak...and _more_ than that, somehow. He felt off-colour, so to speak, but he couldn't figure out what precisely was missing.

"Caelan," was uttered in his ear, "What's wrong?"

He stifled a gasp at the sudden announcement, though he really should have been used to Lucien sneaking up on him by now. And he _had_ known the assassin was nearby; he'd allowed Caelan to leave the fort, but the mer had been entirely certain he was being shadowed with an invisibility spell. Correct, it seemed.

"You've been staring at that apple for a while," Lucien continued, so close that Caelan could feel the man's stubble lightly scratching his cheek, "Are you going to eat it or not?"

"...Sorry, just got distracted," he took a generous bite, the sound breaking the otherwise quiet air.

"You still like them, hm?"

The High Elf gave him a faint smile: "You're good at making poison."

"Something of a hobby. Speaking of which, we'd better get back inside before it kicks in. I'll have to carry you otherwise."

"Lead the way," he followed as soon as Lucien shimmered into view; and, once he was a few paces ahead, discreetly dropped the poison apple and kicked it into a nearby clump of bushes.

It was, as with everything else, tasteless.


	23. Chapter 23

Now see, we have a problem. That problem being that, uh, this is as far as I've written up to. So updates will go from once a week to...well, whenever I get another chapter penned out, which may end up being a _long_ time. You'll have to bear with it, I'm afraid.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

And for a while, that was how it remained – Caelan feigned enjoying his food, all the while wondering what the hell was wrong with him, while Lucien remained blissfully unaware. There were no other incidents, no sudden loss of colour or sensation – absence of taste aside, everything was stable.

And it might have stayed that way, had Arquen not shown up.

A clatter from within the fort was his only warning. It wasn't Lucien; Lucien was visiting the sanctuary, and had he made a swift return he would have used the fort's secret – and much quicker – entrance. Nor was it the dark guardians, whose lumbering, creaky movements he had gotten used to by now. It was undoubtedly a person, and he recognised the graceful, unhurried pattern of those approaching footsteps from their last encounter.

_Hide!_

He took a hasty step towards the bed before realising that it was far, far too obvious. Under the carpet, behind the wall-hanging, on the bookshelf – stupid, useless suggestions, the best his panic-laden mind could come up with. The footsteps were getting closer, and he could only glance desperately around for an opportunity. The crypt, the Alchemy table, the apple barrel – _the apple barrel!_

He moved quicker than he thought possible, lifting the lid and easing himself inside. A stroke of luck that it was mostly empty; he'd been depleting Lucien's supply all week as per usual, though not actually eating them. He still couldn't taste a thing, and he was becoming increasingly reluctant to get himself killed – still, he had to keep up appearances if he didn't want Lucien to grow suspicious. In any case, the empty barrel gave him a place to hide, and he thanked all the gods he didn't believe in that he was just slim enough to fit. The replaced lid trapped him in complete darkness, making him reliant on hearing alone to detect Arquen's movements.

_Checking the cupboards...behind the drawers...under the bed..._

His senses were almost unnaturally heightened; he could hear even the rustling of her robes, feel her footsteps through the floor, even detect her perfume, which masked the scent of blood, the lives she had taken. She was so unhurried, so graceful, and so _terrifying_ because Caelan knew just what she was capable of. He had seen it in her hardened gaze, and _heard_ it from the whispers throughout the Cheydinhal sanctuary of her past exploits, how she had come to the respected and feared position of Speaker.

He froze up like a statue as she came to a stop just outside the barrel. He didn't even dare to _breathe_ in case she heard. Though he very nearly gasped aloud when he heard the voice, cool and cultured, and most definitely belonging to Arquen: "Where could he be...?"

_So she is looking for me-_ and the thought was abruptly cut off when she tapped her fingers against the barrel – to her, an idle gesture; to _him_, an almost violent shock that sent his heart beating so fast and loud he feared it would give him away, as though it were trying to escape his ribcage.

He was, for perhaps the first time in his life, truly terrified. Though he couldn't actually say what he was scared _of_: what would she do, if she found him? Kill him? He was still invincible – though lately that fact was being called into question – so he had no need to fear death. With Mannimarco gone and the contract nullified, Lucien was no longer at risk. But why, then, was she searching Fort Farragut?

Lucien was still in some kind of danger. He had to be, or she wouldn't be looking for Caelan. So he needed to stay hidden, even if he didn't know precisely why he was hiding in the first place.

It was another hellish ten minutes – and Caelan had counted every second – spent desperately wishing Lucien would return, before Arquen gave up searching the main chamber, and left to look around the rest of the fort. No sooner had her footsteps faded when Caelan lifted the lid of the barrel, keeping a grip on the lid so it wouldn't clatter to the floor. He was able to stay calm just long enough to climb from the barrel and silently replace the lid, before:

_Now, run!_

He ran. Ran for the ladder to Fort Farragut's secret entrance, climbed the ladder as fast as he was able until he met the outdoor air, chilled with the Cheydinhal winter. And he kept running, through the patchwork of snow and frosted grass, the icy wind on his back, seemingly urging him to go faster, to get away.

Ran, and ran, until he could run no longer, and his legs that _burned_ despite the cold succumbed to utter fatigue, sending him face-down to the blanketed white ground. Everything was too fast, too dizzy, too chaotic, and he could not gather himself to think or move, simply lie there in the silence, save the whispering wind and his own harsh, ragged breaths. Then the white became grey became black as he thought of Lucien, and waited to be found.

* * *

Panic.

It was not on his list of emotions. Though he was by no means devoid of feeling – anger, possessiveness, lust, satisfaction – panic was something he rarely felt, if at all. He didn't _need_ to panic when he could anticipate the every move of friend and foe alike, due to a network of informants, both in and outside the Brotherhood. He was almost omnipresent, in that regard.

What he had _not_ anticipated, however, was returning to find Caelan gone.

And panic drove the mind to strange and illogical things. The more practical option would have been taking Shadowmere, but by the time that thought occurred to him, he was already running through fields and forest, a black figure amongst the brilliant white that surrounded him. The startings of snowfall drifted down around him, but there was no time to stop and admire, not when there were missing Altmer to be found.

He saw the footprints in the otherwise undisturbed snow, set wide and far apart, as if the person had been running for their life; it was almost painful to think that, after all that had been said and done, Caelan _still_ chose to run away. He was entirely willing to follow the trail of footsteps to the ends of Tamriel if he had to, but it was with a grim mix of anger, bitterness and nauseous defeat that he realised: if Caelan truly wanted to leave, there was nothing he could do. In fact, he'd all but given up hope when he saw, not too far away, the teal-robed figure curled up on the icy ground.

"Caelan!" Though he had meant to shout, all that came out was a raspy whisper, thin and breathless from the exertion getting here. Still, Caelan stirred in the snow as though he'd heard, eyes flickering open. When he saw who it was, he gave a weak, almost non-existent smile.

"So there you are," he heard the mer say as he approached, though so quietly he almost missed it, "I knew you'd find me eventually."

"Caelan," he demanded despite an approaching sore throat; amidst the chaos and panic he never thought himself capable of, anger was an old, familiar comfort: "What are you doing out here? Why did you run away from me again?"

"I wasn't running from you," Caelan told him – he had still not lifted himself from the snow, Lucien noted, "I was running from _her_."

He frowned, "Her?"

"Arquen."

Funny, the feelings a simple name could evoke, from a spike of dread to a thousand questions, namely: _what? When? __Why__?_

"She was looking for me," the High Elf continued, "But I don't know why. I just hid...then, when she left the room, I ran. I didn't know what else to do."

"You're sure it was her?"

He nodded, "I heard her voice. She said 'where could he be?' But she can't have been looking for you. She was checking under the bed, places like that."

She definitely hadn't been looking for him, then. Arquen knew full well that, recruitment and negotiation duties aside, Lucien could be found either at Fort Farragut or the Cheydinhal sanctuary. She had been seeking Caelan – but the question was, why? If the contract had been revoked...

"I don't know why she would be looking for you..." Lucien murmured, more to himself than anything. He glanced down again at the Altmer, who was still lying on the ground, "Caelan, sit up. You'll get sick if you stay there in the snow."

"I'm too tired to move," was the protest, "All that running took it out of me. Can't you just carry me back?"

"No I will not-" Lucien began, but paused when he saw Caelan's hand, extended some way from the rest of his body. It seemed oddly pale compared to the rest of him, curled inwards, and yet despite being half-enveloped by the snow, not trembling with cold in the slightest. As though frozen in place.

"Wait-" he began, kneeling down and hastily stripping off one glove; when he brushed his bare fingers against Caelan's hand, it was frighteningly cold and waxy to the touch. "Stupid boy, you've got frostbite. What were you thinking, lying out here for so long?"

"Wasn't thinking at all, really," was the murmured reply, though the sleepiness soon faded from his voice as Lucien took ahold of his throat, "Wait, what are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" the Speaker replied briskly, "Either I leave you for all the time and effort it would take to heal up properly – at the risk of losing your hand – or I kill you, and you come back fully restored. The choice is obvious."

"Lucien-" the Elf gasped as Lucien's hands tightened around his neck, "Wait – stop-"

"Sshh," the assassin murmured soothingly, although did nothing to lessen his grip, "It won't take long. You'll feel better when you wake up."

"No, I-" he began to struggle more, pupils dilating and a note of panic creeping into his voice, "You don't understa-" the hold tightened, the words were cut off – and Caelan could manage only one last protest that, strangely enough, sounded genuinely fearful: "Lucien! _Please!_"

"Calm down. You'll wake up soon enough," Lucien answered idly, brushing off Caelan's other, still-functioning hand, which pushed weakly but insistently at his shoulders. It was odd – Caelan normally struggled a bit, but only as a natural reaction to being killed, not as though he honestly wanted Lucien to stop. But here he fought and flailed with what little energy he had left, sending the feather-light snowfall whirling through the air, and disturbing the dusting of frost on the nearby grass. He even thought he saw the beginnings of a shock spell crackle at the mer's fingertips, but the magicka died out before anything could happen. Gradually, his struggles lessened, and lessened, until there was no fight left.

Casually allowing the body to fall limp against the white ground, Lucien sat back, finally able to pause and take in his surroundings. Winter had always been his favourite season, that beautiful, lethal iciness that stripped the world of life and left purity in its wake. It was, in his opinion, the very epitome of Sithis: cold and yet nurturing, merciless and yet necessary: a final death that birthed a new beginning. He pondered this as he gazed about the glacial landscape, the delicate, dancing snowflakes, each one heralding a slow but sure end to the world, before it started up again. And when the thirty seconds were up, he turned back to Caelan.

Who had not awoken.

_What...?_ At first he did no more than frown slightly, wondering if he had not waited long enough. But even as he thought those thoughts, the seconds were ticking away, and Caelan was still staring glassy-eyed at the colourless sky. A cold seeped through his veins that had nothing to do with the climate, because this wasn't right, because _he should have woken up by now._

"Caelan," he said aloud, kneeling over the figure with a sense of apprehension and growing dread, each moment ticking away like the heartbeat in his chest, but not beneath Caelan's skin, no matter how frantically he searched for a pulse, "Caelan, wake up. Wake _up!_"

But Caelan did not hear his calls, nor see the panic in Lucien's eyes, nor feel the hands that gripped his shoulders hard enough to leave bruises. And he did not respond to his name, despite the Imperial shouting himself hoarse, over and over in blind desperation: "Caelan! _Caelan!_"


	24. Chapter 24

_Finally_ finished the chapter...I had to re-write it, since I wasn't happy with the first attempt, but the second fared much better. Apologies in advance for any typos, I think there may be a few lurking about somewhere.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

_The Void...?_

The place was familiar by now. Stood at the crumbling edge of an eternally-expanding chasm, an abyss of colours he had never seen before, of silent, deafening noises and incredible feeling. Ever-changing, ever-shifting – but still familiar. After all, he'd been here surely over a hundred times by now.

And yet something was different. Missing. That the Void should be anything but perfect was massively unsettling; and, as though it had heard the accusation, the space around him reacted, shivers of shocked outrage. That a _place_ could feel emotion was absurd, and yet the Void was not merely a place but a sensation, a state of being, an _actual_ being that pulsed with life and death around him. It was the domain of Sithis – according to some, Sithis himself. He'd never comprehended how a deity could also be an object and a concept and a location, but right then, he understood. A stream of not-quite-words-but-close was whispered, screamed, muttered, laughed, sobbed and snarled into his ear, all at the same time, to pass along the message of the Void:

_You are incomplete._

"Incom-" he said, or tried to say, but he had no tongue with which to speak. And he realised precisely what was missing from the perfect Beyond – the taste. Before there had been everything: the taste of poison apples, taste of copper, taste of diamonds, taste of defeat. But now it was absent, and the Void was as bland as the food back in the world of the living. Except, he remembered, the problem was not with the food, but...

With him.

And with that thought, the Void seemed to deny him, gates that weren't there closing shut as the binding magic of the Staff latched onto him even more aggressively than usual, wrapping around his arms and legs and throat, dragging him back to the life he didn't want.

* * *

The first thing he heard was someone shouting his name.

The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it, especially since he was a tad distracted by the _searingmindnumbingwhitehot_ pain coursing through his body. He shook so violently he feared he would shatter like glass, skin blistering, insides churning, bile rising-

"I'm going to be sick," he – was it him? - mumbled, before rolling over and retching, though nothing came out. Beneath his hands was cold and white and _wet_ though it did not look it, soaking through his robes and skin. A welcome chill, but no sooner had he gratefully collapsed against the ground when he was immediately wrenched from it again, forced to face dark eyes, black robes, raspy voice, poison apples – _Lucien._

"Caelan," the assassin – _he's an assassin?_ – hissed with what seemed to be the full spectrum of emotions, but at the forefront, _anger_, "What the hell is going on? Explain yourself, _now_."

He didn't understand. Nothing made sense. "Explain...what?"

"Thirty seconds," Lucien demanded, his voice low and broken, as though his throat were sore from yelling, "You're supposed to come back after thirty seconds. What happened? Why did you take so long?"

He looked away, though it took what seemed the effort of a thousand men to do so; "...I don't know."

He knew. Though he was only beginning to understand, like a jigsaw slowly coming together, he knew the reason behind all this. Once-gold-now-white skin. A smile that spoke of victory despite bloodstained lips. A dark, glorious laugh even as he fell, even as he submitted to death after cheating it for so many centuries. He saw these things, and Lucien must have seen them too, because he narrowed his eyes, and accused:

"You're lying." And when Caelan wordlessly shook his head, "You're _lying_. You know what's causing this."

He hadn't the energy nor the heart to deny it. But the reason he couldn't give Lucien an answer shone almost blindingly in his mind, the only true clarity amongst everything else. And so he stayed defiantly silent, figuring he was safe as long as he didn't give a reply.

Unfortunately, he'd perhaps misjudged Lucien's patience on the matter, and winced at the Speaker's bruising grip on his upper arms, "Caelan, answer me."

_Don't answer. Don't answer. He can't know. He can't find out._

"For Sithis' sake, Caelan!"

_Can't tell him. Mustn't tell him._

"Say something!"

_I can't, I won't-_

There was a sharp smacking noise, and though he found himself abruptly facing his left, and felt the _warmth_ if not the sting in his cheek, it still took a number of seconds to realise he had been hit. He did not turn his head back to face Lucien, merely stared blankly at the patch of frosted ground before him.

"Caelan," the voice that spoke unnerved him, chiefly because it didn't sound like Lucien, too whispered and weary, "Tell me what happened."

Nothing.

"Please."

He flinched, glanced at the assassins, and almost wished he hadn't at the sight that stared back at him. It was, compressed into one shadow of a man, all the ruin he had caused, his foolishness in thinking he could end the contract without consequences, and the ugly reality that he would have to tell Lucien what had happened.

"...Mannimarco."

Judging by the sudden tenseness he could see and feel in the man, Lucien had an idea of what that word entailed; "What?"

"Mannimarco," he repeated, going back to staring at the snow, because that was easier than looking at the assassin right now, "Before I killed him, he...did something. Changed something."

He could hear the tightness in that voice, like strings of steel: "Changed what?"

"The Staff. He made it, he knows – knew – exactly how it works, so he changed it," Caelan spoke slowly, as though the words were reluctant to come out, "He wouldn't tell me what he'd done. But there was – there was a symbol. Old words, pain, heat. Lots of heat. And he said-"

"What?" Lucien said when Caelan stopped without continuing, "What did he say?"

"'I would be more careful with my invincibility if I were you'."

"And you don't know what he meant by that? Look at me," a gloved hand turned his head back to face the Imperial, and though he didn't want to see, he hadn't the fight left in him to resist, "...Why didn't you tell me this sooner? You could have mentioned this weeks ago."

He fidgeted, tried to look away. _Don't make me say it._ "Didn't want to."

Unfortunately he was a poor liar, and as such, Lucien saw straight through his feeble attempt: "That's not a proper reason. What are you holding back?"

"Nothing."

"Caelan!"

"Nothing!"

"Caelan," the Speaker tried again, this time softer, more coaxing, and Caelan _really_ regretted telling Lucien he liked his voice, because the man was exploiting that to his full advantage right now, "You shouldn't hide things from me. It just causes problems. So be truthful...why didn't you tell me about Mannimarco straight away?"

He swallowed, shifted. He didn't _want_ to tell him, but he had no choice: he wasn't quick-thinking enough nor skilled enough at deceit to weave an elaborate, convincing lie. And though he was fully aware he was being manipulated, there was something about that voice, that tone, that murmured to him: _Give in._ Lucien's hand – the one still ungloved – traced his cheek and the forming bruise he'd inflicted earlier with an almost apologetic gentleness, that contradiction that had won Caelan over in the first place.

"You..." he answered at last, though he was still looking away – he just couldn't bring himself to admit this while meeting Lucien's eyes, "You like my invincibility, don't you? You said it yourself. It means you don't have to hold back."

"Yes, what of it?"

"Well, I might – I might not be precisely invincible anymore," the Altmer went on, mumbling, "So that means...you won't like me anymore either."

Lucien stared at him, though Caelan adamantly refused to stare back; "So that's why you didn't tell me? You were worried I would no longer be attracted to you?"

So there it was – the bare, pathetic truth. "...Something like that," he answered weakly.

Lachance sighed, "Well I can hardly deny it," and at those words, a kind of cold spread through him that Caelan was certain had nothing to do with the surrounding snow, like shards of ice in his veins and his lungs and his heart. "Your invulnerability is what appealed to me, because I didn't have to hesitate or be gentle. That wasn't something I had encountered before."

Caelan said nothing, his throat oddly tight, too much to form words. In his head, the same thought repeated over and over like a mantra until it became unbearable: _you knew. He called you a possession, he never treated you otherwise. You knew all along. You __knew__-_

"Caelan," Lucien's low, oddly soothing voice pulled him from his thoughts, "I wasn't finished speaking."

The elf looked up and, dangerous as it was, dared to hope: "What do you...?"

"There is..." the other paused, and Caelan got the distinct impression that Lucien didn't quite know how to word it, "...More to you than your invincibility."

Strangely enough, his throat was tight again, although in an altogether different way. Finally, he was able to get the intended words out: "What does that mean?" and when the man was stubbornly silent, "Lucien, what does that mean? Tell me!"

"I mean you have other qualities that I'm attracted to," said the assassin, though he sounded reluctant to admit it – but then, Caelan couldn't remember a time when Lucien had openly discussed his feelings and sentiments. The notion that the Imperial wasn't comfortable with such things had never occurred to him; Lachance had such a silver tongue that any sorts of difficulty with words seemed outright absurd. And yet, he could see and hear the struggle as Lucien went on: "Your fearlessness, your casual attitude towards death and gore, be it your own or otherwise...it may have been _shaped_ by the Staff, but it is as much a part of you as your Altmer heritage."

"Half Altmer."

"Never mind that. I may have been _drawn_ by your invulnerability, by the challenge of it, and because I didn't have to hold back. But with the number of times I've actually killed you, surely I should have gotten bored of you by now?" Lucien paused, trailing his fingers along the mer's neck – already he could feel the urge to grip that pretty, slender throat, but he resisted, "I haven't. You continue to intrigue me. Which I suspect isn't due to your invincibility, but your reaction, your nonchalance."

"So you..." the Altmer queried hopefully, "You don't mind that you can't kill me anymore?"

"Well...I should like to get that fixed, or at least find out what's happening to you," Caelan was rather relieved to see the spark of determination in Lucien's eyes, the return of the proud, purposeful man who always had to be in charge, "I pulled Telaendril and M'raaj-Dar back from Chorrol and Leyawiin, but they may have still found some information while they were there. We'll head back to the sanctuary as soon as possible."

Caelan paused, frowning, "'We'?"

"You're coming too, of course. It's safer this way, with the likes of Arquen about – whatever it is she's doing. Can you stand?"

"Just about," though he ended up leaning against the other for support. At which point, he noticed: "...Lucien?"

"What is it?"

"Do you still use nightshade in your poisons?"

"Of course I do," the assassin sniffed curiously at the material of robes, immediately detecting the flower's aroma, "Can't you smell it?"

"No," Caelan sounded decidedly upset, and it took him a few minutes to understand the meaning behind the words: "Not a thing."


	25. Chapter 25

See now, I _planned_ to be extremely productive over the Christmas holidays, update all my stories and churn out a load of fanart as well. Except I kind of... spent it playing Dragon Age instead. But at least I have a new GBR chapter!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

"Speaker?" Vicente questioned as he saw Lucien emerge from the door, despite the man's departure not an hour earlier, "Did you forget somethi-" and at the slight, gold-skinned and distinctly _familiar_ person who followed him in, stared speechlessly for a good few seconds before he could compose himself: "_Caelan?_"

The mer scratched the back of his head sheepishly, "Um, hello."

"But what are you-" and he paused, as if considering his words, before shaking his head and starting anew, "Forgive my manners, I didn't even say hello. It's a pleasure to see you again."

Caelan smiled, remembering just how polite Vicente could be at times: it was the crisp, archaic formality one only found in three hundred year-old Breton gentlemen. He opened his mouth to reply, but no sooner had he done so when a wince escaped instead, at the sudden bruising grip that seized his arm. He glanced over at the culprit, but Lucien was not looking at him – rather, his eyes were trained on Vicente in such a way that suggested the vampire was about to lunge. When he looked back at said vampire, however, he looked perfectly harmless, and more than a little quizzical at the frosty glare he was receiving.

"I will need to talk to M'raaj-Dar," Lucien declared eventually, and when Caelan tried to wriggle from his grasp, held on even tighter, fingers digging unmercifully into the crook of the boy's elbow, and sending an unpleasant jolt through the nerves of his arm, "And Telaendril, when she is next present."

Vicente pursed his lips at Caelan's obvious discomfort, but chose not to comment; both he and Lucien were killers, after all, and he had seen far more brutal displays from the Speaker – many of them directed at Caelan, in fact. But oddly enough, seeing Lucien grip Caelan in such a manner unsettled him more than watching him snap the Altmer's neck like a twig.

"M'raaj-Dar should be in the training room, along with Antoinetta. Telaendril is scouting at the moment, but she should return this evening."

"That will do," was the curt reply before the man headed left, almost forcibly dragging Caelan with him. Vicente was left standing in confusion, and then mild amusement when he saw Antoinetta frog-marched from the Training Room, the heavy wooden doors snapping shut behind her.

"Sithis," he heard the girl mutter a tad sulkily; when she saw him, she did not hesitate to ask: "Vicente, what's wrong with Speaker Lucien? He was fine an hour ago, now he's all grouchy, and I think I saw _Caelan_ with him, and-"

"It _was_ Caelan," Vicente interrupted before a tirade of chatter could begin, as Antoinetta was wont to do, "Lucien brought him back to the sanctuary, though he didn't tell me anything."

"It must be important though, right? He looked pretty grim," she tapped her chin thoughtfully, "And he was holding onto Caelan something fierce. It must've hurt. It _looked_ like it hurt."

"Ah, so I'm not the only one who shares that sentiment," Vicente murmured, "I suppose...if it means what I think it means...he's certainly possessive."

"Possessive," Antoinetta blinked owlishly, and Vicente found himself wondering – not for the first time – how someone so naïve could also be an assassin, and one who was rather fond of her blood and gore at that; "Why would Lucien be possessive over Caelan?"

"Because-" and he remembered that this was _Antoinetta_ he was talking to. Antoinetta, who proclaimed Lachance her saviour. Antoinetta, whose crush on her Speaker was not exactly a secret. Antoinetta, who would probably not take the news of Lucien's new-found relationship _particularly well_.

"-You know what Lucien is like. He always gets touchy over his contracts," he lied easily, "He hasn't changed at all since he first came to the sanctuary."

"That's right, you wee there," her wide blue eyes gained that curious gleam, "What was he like? When he first arrived, I mean."

She always did like hearing about Lucien's past exploits. _Fuel to the fire_, an inner voice reminded him quietly, but went ignored. Antoinetta, after all, was the sort of person that did not give up until she got her way.

* * *

About half an hour later, when he had finished entertaining Antoinetta, and was about to settle down with a good book, the door to his quarters creaked open, and a familiarly robed figure meekly let himself in.

He arched a whitened brow; "Lucien doesn't know you're here, I presume."

"Ah, well, see, about that – no," the door was closed, and the Altmer shuffled in, setting himself awkwardly on the stone slab that served as Vicente's bed, "He let go after I stopped struggling. I sneaked off while he was talking to M'raaj-Dar."

"You do realise, when he notices you're gone-"

"_If _ he notices."

"_When_ he notices," Vicente corrected gently, "You are entirely too optimistic for your own good. And it is never a smart idea to expect mercy where Lucien is concerned."

"True enough," Caelan muttered, absent-mindedly rubbing the arm earlier seized by Lachance, "Ow. He got me right in the elbow, too."

"Can you not simply resurrect? If it would take the pain away..."

"Actually, that issue is debatable right about now," he gave Vicente a rather weak smile, "Guess who isn't invincible anymore?"

Vicente stared at him for a good, long minute before saying: "This is going to be a lengthy explanation, isn't it?"

A lacklustre laugh was his response: "Possibly. Remember when I killed Mannimarco to terminate the contract?" when the Breton nodded, he continued, "I sort of forgot to mention that he, ah, cursed me first."

"...You know, that's quite a monumental thing to forget."

A wince; "I'm aware. But I didn't know what he'd done, and I didn't see any immediate changes, so I thought everything was alright."

"And this is no longer the case?"

"You could say that. I can't taste anything – not food, not poison, nothing. I've stopped smelling things too, so who knows what will come next," he fidgeted with his sleeve, talking to the stone floor as opposed to an incredulous Vicente, "Each time I revive, I feel like I've lost something important, but I can't tell what. Everything's just...wrong."

Vicente leaned forwards, elbows propped on the table and fingers laced together. It made him look decidedly scholarly, and for a moment, Caelan wondered if he _had_ been a scholar, centuries back when he was still human. There was a great deal he didn't know about Vicente, especially in regard to his past, and yet he felt as though he'd known the Breton all his life.

Lucien too, for that matter. Maybe it was an assassin thing.

"You're certain Mannimarco is the cause of this?"

"He must be, I was fine before. Well – I mean – if you can call being unkillable 'fine', but in my case, I suppose it is-" he realised he was getting off-track, coughed embarrassedly, and returned to the matter at hand: "Besides, only Mannimarco would have the power – and know-how – to change how the Staff works. At least, I think that's what he did. So Lucien is trying to figure out what's been altered."

"I see," and he couldn't quite see right, but he could've sworn Vicente was smiling – maybe even _smirking_ – behind those interlaced fingers of his, "I suppose that conforms it, then."

He blinked; "Confirms what?"

"Your relationship with him, of course."

Funny how quickly he could go from puzzled to shocked, "H-how did you-"

"Subtlety isn't exactly your strong point," Vicente pointed out, though his voice was not unkind, "And at the moment, it doesn't seem to be _Lucien's_ forte either. That behaviour earlier was possessive even by his standards."

"Part of the package, unfortunately," Caelan nodded glumly.

"Besides which, Lucien was hired to kill you. He tried everything to get around the invulnerability," Vicente continued, "Granted, that contract has ended now, but here he is trying to _stop_ you from dying permanently. And Lucien, I can assure you, does not do anything _remotely_ benevolent unless he can get something out of it."

"Truer words never spoken," Caelan answered, a grin – genuine, not weary – tugging at his lips. "Well, there's no sense in lying about it. And I don't mind you knowing, since it doesn't bother you. Er – it _doesn't_ bother you, right?"

The vampire laughed softly; "After three hundred years, you'd be surprised at how little offends me," he then paused, wondering if he should bring the subject up, "Besides, you and I shared a rather similar experience, if you'll remember."

"O-oh. That," Caelan flushed pink right up to the tips of his ears, a true rarity on an Altmer, and looked down at his knuckles, "Well, ah, um, best...best not to mention that in front of Lucien, I think."

"_Caelan!_"

"Speak of the Speaker," Vicente murmured, "He appears to have noticed your absence. Do you wish to hide in the wardrobe?"

He was given a pained smile; "Hiding doesn't help. Believe me, I've tried."

* * *

"Ow, ow, ow! _Stop it_, Lucien!"

"Now Speaker, there's no need to be unreasonable-"

"_I'll_ tell you when I'm being unreasonable, Executioner. Return to your quarters."

"I merely wish to see you off-"

"Yes, of course you do. And have a quick snack on Caelan while you're at it, no doubt."

"If you pull my ear any harder it'll come off!"

"Be _quiet_, stupid boy. This is exactly what you deserve."

"We were just talking, I swear!"

"He speaks the truth, Lucien."

"That's not the point. Did I not _explicitly_ tell you to stay beside me while I talked to M'raaj-Dar?"

"But, but I got bored, so-"

"You should have been paying rapt attention, since the conversation concerned your fate."

"What did you find out then? Ow, ow...Lucien, let go? Please?"

Finally, the assassin released the protesting mer, who immediately cradled his abused right ear, wincing. Vicente looked disapproving. Lucien ignored him.

"The only lead he could give me was the head of the local Mages Guild Hall, a woman named Dagail."

Caelan's expression turned hopeful; "Well that's a start, right?"

"It would be, but for the fact that she's insane."

"As in eccentric?" Vicente questioned, "Most mages are. It's not so bad, just takes some getting used to."

"No, I don't mean she's eccentric. I mean she's known to hold deep, lengthy discussions with the voices in her head," Lucien told him flatly, "Completely and incurably out of her mind, and not even in the _useful_ way like the majority of the Brotherhood, so it can hardly be called a lead at all."

"Speaker?" came a familiarly quiet female voice from behind the three of them, "I did not expect to see you here."

Lucien turned, and saw what could only be described as a stroke of pure luck: "Telaendril. Excellent, just the person I was looking for."

"Why would that be?" the Bosmer glanced over at Caelan, recognising him despite two months of absence, "And why has he returned?"

"One answer for both of those questions, my dear. I need to know what you found out when I sent you to Chorrol."

She opened her mouth to ask why, but a raised eyebrow from Lucien was all it took to cease her questions, "Not much, Speaker. The Mages Guild provided few answers, but I did hear about someone who could help. I was going to track him down when you recalled me to Cheydinhal."

"Him? A man? Who?"

"A Dunmer, Olyn Seran. Reputed to be a master in the field of Conjuration."

"A master? Not many of those floating about," Caelan commented, though his wide eyes soon narrowed slyly, "Well...I'm pretty close, but I'm not there yet."

"Not close enough to get yourself out of this mess," Lucien shot back, which soon deflated the mer's ego, "My thanks for the information, Sister. Where might we find this Olyn?"

Telaendril grimaced; "Therein lies the catch. He's at the Molag Bal shrine, far West of the Imperial City."

"...A Daedra-worshipper. Wonderful," Lucien sighed, "Well, it's better than an insane mage, and we of the Brotherhood can hardly discriminate. Let us go."

Caelan blinked; "_Now?_"

"Yes, _now._ This issue has already been put off for long enough – thanks to _you_, I might add. We need to undo all the damage as soon as possible."

Caelan grinned; "Psh, you just want to be able to strangle me again."

"...Yes. That too."


	26. Chapter 26

Progress has been s-l-o-w on this story. I won't leave it unfinished though, I promise. And while you're waiting for the next chapter, you can go look at my newest story Anathema... (/shamelessplug)

And also a warning: latter half of this chapter could be seen as a little disturbing by some. I'd like to know your verdict on it, though.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

"Lucien," Caelan spoke, and again when he received no reply: "Lucien. _Lucien._"

There was at last an impatient huff; "What?"

"Can we stop for a moment?"

"No," was the curt answer, followed by a moment's pause, "Why?"

"I'm tired. I want to rest."

"How can you be tired? Shadowmere has been carrying us both all day," at which the mare whinnied, as if in a grumpy form of agreement, "There there, he isn't _that_ heavy. I'll give you an apple later."

Lucien was really the only person who could get away with talking to his horse without sounding like an idiot. The fact that she understood every word he said – and it _was_ fact, not speculation – was both awe-inspiring and somehow alarming at the same time. Clearly Shadowmere wasn't an ordinary horse; even without the red eyes, there was something..._otherworldly_ about her.

She did, however, _move_ like an ordinary horse. In a swaying trot that most would have found soothing, but Caelan was just getting motion sickness, on top of already feeling a little off-colour.

"Lucien, can we _please_ stop?"

"I told you, no. We need to find this Olyn person as quickly as possible...in fact, we'd have reached him by now if _someone_ hadn't shrieked at me to slow Shadowmere down."

"I did not shriek," Caelan mumbled, hiding his face in the material swathe of Lucien's back, "Can we just stop for five minutes? I don't feel so good."

Lucien did not respond to this. Shadowmere's continued movement, however, made the answer clear.

"I mean I _really_ don't feel so good," he tried again, however fruitless his efforts.

Lucien made a show of glancing into the sky for any approaching storms. As the sky was perfectly cloudless, however, Caelan took this to mean he was being purposefully ignored.

"I mean I _really really_ don't feel so good."

Lucien idly brushed a stray leaf from Shadowmere's mane. She had still not come to a halt.

"I mean I _really really really_-"

"For Sithis' sake," the assassin snapped at last – and as Caelan was behind him, he missed the mer's smug little grin, "_Fine_, we'll stop for a break. But I don't know why you feel sick when you haven't _done_ anything."

"I just don't mix well with horses, that's all," and proving his point perfectly, he tried to disembark Shadowmere, caught his foot on the stirrup, and just ended up falling off the saddle, "Ow...you see? You see what I mean?"

"Oblivion," Lachance muttered, dismounting in one smooth, fluid motion, "You have to be the most ungraceful Altmer I've ever come across."

"_Half Altmer!_"

"Yes, yes," he waved a hand carelessly, watching the elf on the ground and making no move to help him up, "So what do you want to do, now that we've stopped?"

Rather than sitting up, Caelan rolled onto his side, and curled up where he lay, "Sleep."

"_Sleep?_ How can you want to sleep, at this time? The sun hasn't even set yet."

"M'tired," Caelan responded, eyes closed even as he spoke, "Lucien, go find a bandit camp for me."

The Speaker arched one eyebrow; "And since when do I take orders from you?"

He waited for a reply, but didn't get one; puzzled, he nudged the mer with his foot, only to find he had already fallen asleep. A frown crossed his brow, and he half-considered leaving to Caelan to sleep in the dirt – at least, until he remembered _he_ would have to hear the complaints of aches and pains when the elf woke up. Given that Caelan could and would whinge all day, he decided that finding a camp would be the smarter idea.

It did not take long to locate one, nor clear it of its inhabitants; outnumbered three to one as he was, they were ill-prepared and clumsy with their blades. Not bothering to shift the corpses, he went back to Caelan, who was still curled up on the floor, and overlooked by a disdainful Shadowmere.

"Up," he said, nudging the mage again, "Get _up_. I thought you wanted a camp to stay in?"

He got a pitiful groan as his response, "I don't want to move anymore. Too sleepy."

"I didn't go to all that trouble for you to be lazy. _Up-_" he hauled Caelan to his feet, and did not miss the unsteady wobble as the other clung to him for support, "What's wrong with you? Did you hit your head when you fell off the saddle?"

"No, I just – don't feel so good," and yet when Lucien gripped along the mer's jaw to tilt his head back, he could see no signs of illness – his eyes were sleepy but not glazed, and his skin was normal in both colour and temperature. Caelan looked, by all definitions, perfectly healthy, but then why was he so exhausted when his day had been uneventful – when his day hadn't even _ended_ yet?

"Hn. Maybe you just need to rest." Stress, perhaps. Caelan didn't seem the type to get stressed – nervous, panicky and flustered, yes, but for the most part he just went with the flow instead of worrying about things. Consequence was trivial to him, after all. Still, going from invincible to suddenly very vulnerable was enough to give anyone grey hairs, "Come with me. It isn't too far."

* * *

When nightfall came, however, Caelan was still curled up beneath the crude shelter of his tent, tangled with the coarse blankets, and evidently feeling no better.

Lucien spared him a glance before turning back to the campfire, illuminated by its flickering orange glow. The Brotherhood did not demand a complete lack of emotion from its members; still, there was an unspoken rule that an assassin should live without sentiment. It was this coldness that all Brothers and Sisters came to embrace, and he among them: his eyes betrayed no emotion, no concern. But even he could not deny the worry worming through his gut.

He _was_ attached to Caelan. Betraying the unspoken rule in the process, but really, how could he have known it would come to this? He could not have predicted the situation he was in now, trekking across Cyrodil to _save_ the very person he had been trying to kill for months. And now that Caelan seemed to grow ever more unstable...yes, he was anxious. He could admit that. He could also comfort himself with the fact that his concern was as much for _his_ well-being as Caelan's, because selflessness simply did not exist in his life. If Caelan died permanently, then Lucien would...

Would...

Well, he didn't know.

Glancing at the Altmer for roughly the eighteenth time this hour, Lachance shook his head, and at last went over the flimsy tent where the other lay: "Caelan, are you awake?" an unintelligible mumble was his answer, "Come and sit by the fire. It's too cold over here."

Despite a half-hearted protest, the High Elf allowed himself to be dragged to a warmer spot. His first move was to try and lay his head in Lucien's lap as he sat; the assassin raised a brow at the sentiment, and shuffled slightly to the right so the mer collided with the ground instead.

"...You know," Caelan said after a pause, not lifting his head, "You're really unromantic."

A smirk curled at the edges of Lucien's mouth, "I can be romantic when I want to be."

"Feh. I don't believe you."

"Oh?" he leaned over and lightly stroked the outer shell of Caelan's ear, smirk widening at the shudder it enticed, "Perhaps you'd like me to prove it?"

Caelan sat up at that. With a lingering weariness to his movements, Lucien noticed, but his eyes were far more bright and alert than they had been minutes before. A certain sense of victory washed over him as he realised he'd found the cure to Caelan's lethargy.

"Go on then," the Necromancer challenged, grinning, "Romance me. I want a kiss," he puckered his lips pointedly.

Lachance laughed, like liquid velvet, "On the _mouth?_ So unsubtle, my dear boy. No, I do believe we should start more like...this," he raised one slender golden hand, dwarfed in his own, and placed a light kiss on each of the fingertips. And then the knuckles. Then on the back of his hand, turning it over carefully and placing his lips against the palm. Then wrist to elbow...elbow to shoulder...across his collarbone and up the junction of his neck, stubble lightly scratching the mer's throat. When he did finally reach his lips, Caelan was wide-eyed and breathing hard – but not squirming with frustrated rapture, not unable to see or think or form any words beyond begging for release. And given Lucien had never before had trouble brining Caelan to this state, seeing his lover's relative calmness was, in the very least, quite disappointing.

"What?" he asked, pulling his hands away and frowning when this did not warrant a frantic protest, "Aren't you enjoying yourself?"

"Well – yes of course, but – it's not – I'm not-" the elf shuffled on the spot, sheepish and awkward, "It's not...really the same without the blood, is it?"

"You want something more violent?" and that, he had to confess, surprised him. He'd always thought Caelan didn't _mind_ the violence, but merely went along with it because Lucien wanted to, and because he was never given much choice in the matter. Now, though, Caelan was actively seeking it out. It awakened a heated longing in his veins, but for once, he would have to refuse the prospect of bloodshed: "I can't. After we've restored you to your normal state, maybe, but for the time being I'd rather not risk you dying permanently."

"You can't...not even a few shallow cuts?"

"No. Besides, you'll end up covered in scars," and while he did love to make an art of such things, Caelan's main attraction was that he was a re-usable canvas – he could be cleared of his cuts and bruises, and marked anew.

"I just..." Caelan looked decidedly crestfallen, "Wanted to be covered in red again. You said it made me look regal."

"It does, but-" and suddenly, Lucien paused, an idea springing to mind, "Actually..."

"Actually?" the other inquired hopefully.

"What if it wasn't _your_ blood you were decorated with?" the assassin mused, suppressing his amusement at Caelan's wide-eyed reaction, "We could use, perhaps, those dead bandits over there," he nodded towards the pile of earlier-dispatched men.

Caelan also looked over at the three bodies, carelessly tangled together, "Can we _do_ that?"

"Why not? They won't be needing their blood anymore," Lucien shrugged casually, callously, "Or if you're asking about the morality of the act...well, you and I are hardly saints. I certainly have no issues with it."

"Then I suppose...I don't either," Caelan concluded, "Bring one over, then."

He did so, selecting the mostly-undamaged carcass of what was once a Dunmer. Kneeling before the body, cutting with surgical precision, Caelan was reminded of watching Lucien at his poisons, though it seemed so long ago. And yet here he was again – a man of science, as intimately familiar with anatomy as he was with Alchemy. The blood did not well up as it would have with a living being, but it still flowed from the too-pale skin. And then, as soon as Lucien had wetted his gloved hand with the stuff and turned to Caelan, he was no longer a scientist but an artist, his paints at the ready.

"That's- ah," the Altmer shivered as red was smeared across his cheek, "That's cold."

"He's been dead for a while," Lucien murmured, fingers trailing across golden skin, his nose and lips and neck, "You would prefer it warm?"

"It would feel a bit more...realistic, I guess. Like it was mine."

"Hm. I'll find fresher bait next time."

Caelan blinked, not quite sure he'd heard right; "Fresher...bait?"

Lucien's eyes glittered dark and sadistic, "Much fresher. Someone killed, shall we say, a few minutes before I start painting you."

"You would..." contrary to looking horrified, a small, shy smile tugged at the Altmer's lips, "You would do that? For me?"

He smiled back, cupping the rounded cheek. The blood there was cold and dead – next time, that would be amended, "For you."

A giddy noise tickling his throat, Caelan leaned forwards to press their lips together. When he pulled back, his voice was light and teasing, no longer wearied: "You know, I think you _are_ romantic after all."


	27. Chapter 27

Olyn will be featuring as a pretty major character for the rest of the story. I never actually came across him in the game (never got that far in Conjuration), and I can't find any videos of him anywhere, so I'm characterising him by what little dialogue of his I can dig up. Hopefully my guesswork isn't too inaccurate.

I'm also considering doing a little side-story about Caelan's relationship with Mannimarco. The thought hadn't even crossed my mind until this chapter, but I wouldn't mind writing a prequel of sorts, even just a oneshot, to give more insight into his life before Lucien. Would anyone be interested?

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

They found him, sure enough, at the Molag Bal shrine West to the Imperial City. Though he was not the only person at the site, Caelan could pick him out right away; mages, particularly ones as skilled as Olyn was rumoured to be, had a certain..._air_ about them. An arrogance that came with wielding great power, which he could plainly see in the haughty lift of the Dunmer's chin, the lips accustomed to curling in disdain.

They both approached: Lucien was almost soundless, his steps so light that even the footprints in the snow-dusted ground were barely visible. Caelan, however, walked with his usual amount of nimbleness and grace – which was to say, none. Subsequently, Olyn heard them coming, turned slightly, and raised one dark brow at the sight of the pair.

"You know," he drawled rather than spoke, looking at Lucien, and Lucien's midnight-black attire in particular, "You might have made the effort to _not_ look like an assassin. Unless you're not here to try and kill me?"

Neither Lucien nor Caelan missed the word _try_. The Speaker gave his most charming smile: "Of course not," spoken in a deceptively soft voice that served more as a warning than a reassurance, "If I were, you would already be dead by now."

"Mm. So then what, pray tell, _are_ you here for? Not Conjuration training, surely."

Caelan visibly perked up at the words, "Actually, that wouldn't be such a bad ide-"

-And was promptly silenced by the sharpness of Lucien's elbow to his ribs. The assassin talked over the resounding whine of protest, "Sadly not. You see, I have a rather unusual problem – one involving Conjuration, naturally, and beyond the comprehension of the average mage. I wish for your help resolving it."

There _was_ a compliment in there, however subtle, but Olyn frowned rather than preened, and answered, "That depends entirely on what the problem is."

Caelan gave a sheepish laugh, "It's a long story-"

"He stole the Staff of Worms from Mannimarco, used it to become invincible," Lucien summarised at once, "Mannimarco wasn't pleased, twiddled with the Staff's properties, and now his invincibility is playing up. I want you to restore it."

"_Hey_," Caelan complained at once, in a decidedly childish tone, "I was going to tell him."

"You would have given him the long version."

"I would _not_-"

"Wait. Hold on, just – wait," Olyn interrupted the two, evidently very confused, "You – hold on – you became _invincible?_"

"I _am_ invincible. Sort of," the Altmer tried to explain, "I come back back. After I die, that is. And fully restored – um, until recently."

"But how did you...?"

"Oh. Well I, er, tried to bind the Staff of Worms to myself. To make it conjurable and all," and he couldn't resist bragging, "I'm good at Conjuration, you see. I mean really quite good-"

Lucien elbowed him again before his ego could take over the conversation, "But not good enough to get it _right_, and he ended up absorbing the abilities of the Staff itself. You know what the Staff does, I presume?"

Olyn looked much as though he'd just been asked if Dunmer were blue; "There have been legends written about that thing. It's as close as Necromancy has ever come to actually resurrecting the dead, not just animating corpses. If only for one minute."

"Half a minute, actually," Caelan corrected helpfully, "But the process is kind of reversed – if I die, I come back after thirty seconds, good as new."

"I...see," Olyn said slowly, "And supposing I didn't believe you?"

Caelan blinked, nonplussed, "Why wouldn't you believe me?"

"Well why _would_ I? Your story is far-fetched at best."

The Necromancers voice took on a tone of desperation, "But – I – do you want me to prove it?" he asked, "I can here and now, if you'd like."

Olyn glanced suspiciously at the other , then at Lucien, whose expression was carefully neutral. "Go on then," he challenged, masking whatever uncertainty he felt with bravado, "Kill yourself."

Caelan turned to the assassin beside him, only a faint waver in his voice, "Can I borrow your dagger? I don't have my own."

Lucien's hand drifted to the blade at his side, but did not draw it, "Are you sure about this?"

"I won't help if he doesn't believe us," the Altmer said, practically pleaded, "We need to prove it. I need to come back."

"And if you _don't_ come back?"

"That...that won't happen," but even Caelan himself sounded unsure. In truth, he had been revived so many times now that the idea of _staying_ dead was difficult to fathom. There was every chance he wouldn't wake up, but what choice did he have? "We'll have to risk it. Please, I need your dagger."

Though his eyes betrayed a troubled look, Lucien reluctantly handed over the weapon with a mutter of, "Fine, but do the task yourself."

In truth, though he could force himself to carry out the deed, it was not a responsibility he wanted – _especially_ if Caelan did not come back. Life and death had never weighed on his conscience before, and he had not suddenly grown a moral code. But if the mer _did_ die here and now, he could blame Olyn, Caelan, Mannimarco – anyone but himself. Selfish reason was far less unsettling to him than the notion of actually feeling guilt.

Caelan took the dagger, pressing it experimentally against the soft skin of his throat, as if to check he really could be hurt. Olyn was displaying a curiosity that was both fascinated and repulsed, and Lucien was trying not to display anything at all. When Caelan turned slightly and gave him a weak smile, his fingers twitched involuntarily.

In a single, swift motion, he drew the blade against his own neck.

Lucien caught him as he fell, lowering the body more carefully to the ground so the Altmer would not be further hurt; a move born not of kindness but caution, in case any injury would delay or _prevent_ Caelan's return. Olyn knelt also, and did not remark on what he and just witnessed, but the incredulous look on his face did all the talking.

Thirty seconds came and went. Lucien absentmindedly straightened the collar of Caelan's robes.

Olyn twiddled his thumbs, "...Shouldn't he have been revived by now?"

"As I said, his invincibility is playing up. Last time it was two minutes," and he was _not_ going to work himself into that state of blind panic again. He just had to stay calm and wait.

Two minutes also passed, and Olyn said, "Are you _sure_ he's invincible?"

"And you think I trekked across Cyrodil to find you as a joke, do you?" the assassin replied, the tone coming out a touch sharper than he had intended, "You could have just taken my word. There was no need to make him prove it."

Olyn made no attempt to argue. He instead regarded Caelan then Lucien with a thoughtful expression, "So tell me, why _has_ an assassin trekked across Cyrodil to find me?"

"I've already told you my purpose. I assume you mean why am I doing this for him," he nodded at the slowly bleeding out on the soil.

"Last I checked, Brotherhood assassins weren't known for being especially sentimental."

Lachance did not deny either belonging to the Dark Brotherhood or being attached to Caelan. He simply stated: "He belongs to me."

"As a lover? Or – ah," Olyn realised, "As a plaything."

"If you want to put it that way."

"And how would you term it? He's someone you can hurt and kill as many times as you want, for pleasure. That's the only reason you keep him around, hence why you're so keen for me to fix him," said the Dunmer, arrogance showing through his sly little smile, "And what if I can't restore him?"

"There are plenty of ways to hurt someone without leaving lasting physical damage," Lucien's eyes glinted with sadism, "Perhaps I should show you."

And at this point, Caelan woke up.

Lucien had expected the High Elf to return, but the relief of seeing Caelan alive again was unmistakably present. He helped the other to his feet, and they both turned to look pointedly at Olyn Seran.

"Told you so," the Altmer declared.

"Alright, fine. You're invincible," Olyn conceded, his arms raised in a mimicry of surrender, "I'd still like to know how."

"I told you, I took the Staff of Worms from Mannimarco-"

"Yes, about that. Last I checked, Mannimarco was dead."

"He was?" Caelan blinked wildly, "He wasn't when I joined up. Must've found a way to come back – necromancers don't stay dead for very long, as a general rule."

"And you were a student of his?"

"Right. Of course, he only _personally_ taught a handful of people, the most gifted- ow," Lucien elbowed him _again_, "Anyway, I took the Staff of Worms when he wasn't looking and legged it-"

Olyn frowned, "Hold on. He mentored you personally, and in return you stole his prized Staff?"

"Yes – well – I'd have given it _back_," Caelan insisted at once, "And it's not like I hadn't taken anything from him before. I always gave it back."

The Dark Elf's frown tightened, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but evidently thought better of it. Instead, he pressed on with the tale: "So you became invincible. And then you say Mannimarco...'twiddled' with the power of the Staff?"

"I'd say 'cursed me' is more accurate. He and I were fighting, and just before I killed him-"

"You _killed _him?"

"Well I'm invulnerable. He couldn't win, really."

"That wasn't my point," Olyn crossed his arms, eyes narrowed, "He took you under his wing, taught you Necromancy, and as thanks you not only stole from him but turned around and _murdered_ him," his tone was saturated with disapproval, and his lips – just as Caelan had noted earlier – were curled in utmost disdain. "Well, I'm not surprised he cursed you. In fact, I'd say you deserved it."

"That's not for you to judge, Dunmer," Lucien cut in smoothly, "Caelan had his reasons for turning against Mannimarco. And given your own life choices-" he nodded towards the great statue of Molag Bal a short distance away, "-I'd say you're hardly qualified to preach morality."

"...Fair enough," the muttered, "So you want me to find out exactly what's been changed and how to fix it, correct?"

"Correct," Lachance repeated crisply, while Caelan – stunned into silence by Olyn's harsh judgement – shuffled and fidgeted wordlessly with his sleeve.

"Of course, there is still one thing we're missing from all this," Olyn declared, tapping his foot against the ground with faux-nonchalance, "My payment."

Lucien sighed. Of course. "Name your price, then."

The Conjurer gave a short bark of a laugh, "You are asking me to make someone unkillable. I doubt the Emperor himself could afford the fee for such a task."

And Lucien realised at once, "Then you're not asking for gold."

"If wealth were so important to me, I wouldn't worship Molag Bal," Olyn agreed, "Gaining my gods favour is far more valuable. And given His tendency towards more..._violent_ whims," he phrased delicately, "Earning the oath of a Brotherhood assassin would get me a lot of favour indeed."

He had the distinct impression that he was going to regret this later, but... "Fine. What would you have me do?"

"That is for my god to decide. For now, your word to perform one deed in the name of Molag Bal will suffice."

The transition from ordinary assassin to Speaker was that of a killer to a businessman. As such, Lucien at least ensured he would not be cheated out of his end of the bargain: "And in exchange, you will restore my companion's invincibility completely."

"I give you my word."

"Then I give you mine," Lucien murmured, and the deal was made.

"Excellent. But before we get underway-" said Olyn, "You clearly know my name, if you came here to find me. Yet I have nothing to call you by."

Lucien considered this carefully. Olyn already knew he was in the Brotherhood, and he had an appearance to describe to the guards if he chose to double-cross the Speaker. Unlikely, but it was better not to give away any extra information; "My name is unimportant. You may refer to me as 'assassin'."

"'Assassin'?" this was spoken not by Olyn, but Caelan, who decided to re-join the conversation, "Ooh, anonymity. Can I have a nickname too? I can be...mage? No, that's boring. Necromancer? What do you think, Lucien?"

Lucien almost, _almost,_ facepalmed, "How about _idiot,_ Caelan?"

"Hey, you just gave away my name! Oh-" he realised at this point what he'd said a moment prior, "...Sorry."

"Lucien...a Breton name, correct?" Olyn repeated thoughtfully, "And – Caelan, was it? A pleasure. Now, allow me a moment to announce my departure," he gestured at the Molag Bal shrine and its other worshippers, "And we will go somewhere with more privacy, to discuss this task of mine further."


	28. Chapter 28

My apologies for how long this took, but I just haven't been at all into Oblivion lately. Some very kind reviews and some fanart of Caelan (!) brought back my urge to write however, and thus a new chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

"I think..." Caelan said, squinting in concentration as his quill moved over the parchment, "It was a bit...like that. Yeah."

He handed the drawing over to Olyn, who inched closer to the flickering campfire between them and the meagre light it provided. The worst of winter was over now, but a bitingly cold wind remained, snatching away whatever heat the flames tried to give. Lucien, in his clothing and leathers and hooded robe on top of that, seemed largely unaffected by the weather. He was currently tolerating Caelan huddling up to him – but given the mer's robes were reasonably thick, and he wasn't actually shivering, Olyn was convinced Caelan wanted _attention_, not warmth.

Deciding to ignore it, he glanced down at the sketch clutched in his hands; "You're sure this is the symbol Mannimarco used?"

"Erm...no. I was paralysed while he was drawing it out, I only got a glance at it while I was escaping Echo Cave," Caelan said, "But still, it's not too inaccurate...right?"

"Well, this is..." Olyn pointed at a section of the roughly-drawn symbol, "The glyph for summoning a mudcrab. I recognise this part from _The Conjurers Kitchen_ as how to call forth a daedric spatula. And I'm pretty certain _that_ bit isn't Conjuration at all," he pursed his lips, "Hardly the formula for de-constructing invincibility."

"I tried my best," Caelan pointed out, looking affronted, "That's as much as I can remember, and it doesn't help that I was recovering from fifty-odd consecutive deaths, being paralysed and then having a strange ritual cast on me. I'm surprised I can recall anything," he sniffed, "And who knows, maybe mudcrabs and spatulas _are_ the key to becoming unkillable."

"I doubt it," Olyn muttered, "Fine, how about you show me the glyph you used to become invincible?"

"I wasn't _trying_ to become invincible. I just wanted to make the Staff conjurable," the High Elf insisted at once, "I bound the Staff to me-"

"You bound yourself to the Staff," Olyn corrected him.

"No, I bound _the Staff_ to _me_-"

"You bound _yourself_ to _the Staff_," the older mage repeated sternly, "It's the first rule of Conjuration: the weaker force is bound to the stronger. It's why a novice can't summon a full set of Daedric armour – the glyphs stop the attempt from working, but without that protection, he would end up bound to the objects, not the other way around."

Caelan huffed and folded his arms, "I fail to see how a Staff can be more powerful than a fully-fledged Conjurer-"

"Because it was created by Mannimarco, the _only_ mage strong enough to safely adjust its properties. And even he didn't risk trying to make it conjurable," replied Olyn, with more than a hint of disdain at Caelan's foolishness, "Your spell should have outright _failed_, so you must have drawn the glyph wrong. You were bound to the Staff, and you should have died – you probably _did_ at least once during the attempt, but due to the nature of the Staff, it immediately resurrected you, and in doing so merged with you," he tapped his fingers impatiently against the winter-hardened ground he sat upon, "The fact that you are here in one piece and not _at best_ a lumbering, half-decayed monstrosity is, I can assure you, a complete and utter fluke."

"Seran," Lucien interrupted, breaking the silence he had held through most of the evening, "When you are quite done reprimanding the boy, perhaps you can get on with fixing this mess?"

Olyn glared at him, "Then I need more information. _This_-" he waved the sketch in his hand, "Is not enough. If you can tell me how you tried to bind the Staff, Caelan, I can work out how Mannimarco managed to undo it."

"Ah, well, see...there is a problem with that," Caelan fidgeted with his sleeve, "I can't remember."

"What do you mean, you can't remember?"

"The symbol I used. I just remember...pain. Enough that I forgot about the binding spell as soon as I woke up. As a coping mechanism, I guess."

"You can't recall anything at all?" when the younger elf shook his head, Olyn gave a weary sigh, looking down again at the drawing, "So all I have to work with is a glyph for summoning a mudcrab armed with a spatula. Wonderful."

"Yeah, but...you can figure something out, right? You're the expert, after all."

"I'm a master Conjurer, not a miracle worker," Olyn rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly, "Alright, fine. If you can get me some books on Conjuration, I'll try and piece this together myself."

It was Lucien who spoke this time: "What will you need?"

"_The Grand Encyclopedia of Glyphs._ It amasses most, if not all of the Conjuration symbols. It was later censored to omit Necromancy and other occult references, but if you can get me the first edition-"

"Oh!" Caelan piped up suddenly, "I have that in my house in the Imperial City."

Olyn raised a brow; "The only uncensored copy in Cyrodil is hidden away in the Arcane University-"

"Well yeah," the mer shrugged, "That's where I stole it from."

The Dark Elf's expression went from incredulous to outright stunned, "You managed to steal a book kept under lock and key from the University?"

"I – well – I'm good at that sort of stuff," Caelan told him, somewhat sheepish, "I'd be the next Gray Fox by now if the Thieves Guild hadn't kicked me out for..." he snorted, "..._Stealing_ from another member. Hypocrisy much."

"You really have it in your home?" Olyn asked again, still not quite believing it, "We would have had to travel to the Imperial City anyway to take it from the University, but if you already have it, that makes things a bit easier. We'll head for the City first thing tomorrow morning."

* * *

As they headed eastwards to the Imperial City, there was little more to be said. Except for Caelan, who seemed to loathe silence, and attempted to fill it with meaningless chatter – mostly about how tired, cold, hungry or sore he was. When Lucien dutifully ignored him he sulked, kicking pebbles along the roads they walked until he was snapped at to stop. He tried to steal the water-flask Lucien carried at his hip, and of course was immediately caught. The assassin very nearly struck him, but then lowered his hands with a frustrated growl and stalked off. Oddly enough, Caelan looked disappointed.

It was attention, Olyn had quickly come to realise. Whether he was being talked to or yelled at, Caelan wanted his presence acknowledged at all times, and resorted to increasingly desperate measures to get noticed. He could only speculate the odd Altmer's past, but his guess was that Caelan had spent most of his life being ignored. The easiest way to amend that was to do things that you weren't supposed to – like steal from people, or practice necromancy, or get involved in a relationship with another man. Caelan thrived on disobedience.

Lucien was...harder to figure out, and the man no doubt liked it that way. He had made it quite clear that there was a very dangerous individual underneath the charming exterior, but beyond that, Olyn only saw what Lucien wanted him to see.

Something he intended to change. He had always been the type to question things; he questioned why he should worship the Nine, and when he was unsatisfied with the answer he turned to Molag Bal. He questioned why he should be content with summoning simple creatures, and so he dedicated himself to learning Conjuration until there was nothing left the books could teach him. And he questioned all of the people he came across until he knew what they were, how they worked and how to best manipulate them, if necessary. A closed book like Lucien was all the ore enticing, and he was determined to find out what made the assassin tick.

The first thing to do, then, was to find out as much about Lucien as possible. He doubted he would get the formation from the man himself, so that meant engaging the chattier of the two; "Caelan?"

"Hm?" Caelan had, until that point, been both grumbling at being ignored and staring wistfully at Lucien's back. At the prospect of a conversation, however, he immediately wandered over, "What is it?"

"I'm curious," Olyn began, his nonchalant tone masking his true motives, "How did you and the assassin meet?"

"Oh, well – exactly like that, actually. Mannimarco hired him to kill me," as he'd predicted, the mer quickly launched into his story, "For stealing the Staff, as I understand it. Except I'd already bound it by that point, so of course I revived straight away. Since he was bound by contract, he took me with him to find a way around the invincibility."

"What, he wanted to stop you being unkillable, at first?"

"Right. But he couldn't find a way, and he was in danger of losing his job, so I ended the contract by – well, by taking out the contractor," so Mannimarco wasn't killed for purely selfish reasons, as he'd first thought. Hm, intriguing, "And since he didn't have to kill me anymore, he...decided he preferred me alive, I guess."

"I see," said Olyn, fond of answers that gave very little away, "And yourself?"

"Huh?"

"Well presumably you didn't want to be killed permanently. Yet you say he took you with him – as though you went willingly."

Caelan blinked, confused; "I did. Oh-" he suddenly realised, "I forgot, most people run away when they see an assassin, don't they? But I wanted to die, you see."

"...What?"

The Altmer laughed, as though he'd just admitted a fondness for strawberries and not his own suicide wish, "It's a little hard to explain. See, I'm not precisely unkillable, because I do actually die, and when I do I get a glimpse into the afterlife – the Void. At least, I think it's the Void. No, I'm sure it is," his tone took on a dreamy quality, "And it's...magnificent. Nothing and yet everything, all existing at once – all the sights, sounds, smells, tastes and textures. Chaos. Sithis."

Olyn was, for quite possibly the first time in his life, speechless. Thankfully he didn't need to say anything, as Caelan continued, glancing upwards as though the god was sitting up there, though he could have just as easily existed below them as well: "It's stupid, people fear death...if they knew what was waiting for them they'd do anything to reach it. _I'd_ do anything to reach it."

"So you still want to die?" Olyn frowned, finding his voice at last "Then why are you going along with this? This is your chance to get into the Void."

"Not exactly," Caelan answered, looking down from the sky to the ground to match his troubled thoughts, "Whatever's happening to me, I don't think it's killing me properly. I've already lost my ability to taste and smell – here _and_ in the Void. Every time I wake up, I feel like I've lost another part of myself," his voice dropped quieter still, "Before the Void was dangled in front of me, but at least I was _there_. Now it's like I'm only partially there. No taste, no scent."

Olyn made a non-committal 'hm' at this newly-discovered knowledge, "Does Lucien know about this?"

"Oh yes. And he's been listening into our conversation, so he's just been reminded of it all."

The Dunmer glanced up, and sure enough noticed the slight cock of Lucien's head as he eavesdropped on their talk. Though he displayed a protective streak over his target-turned-partner, defending his moral choices when Olyn berated him too harshly, Lucien for the most part seemed to tune Caelan out, acting as though the High Elf was quite trivial. As soon as he interacted with someone else, however, he was suddenly the centre of the assassin's attention.

How very _interesting._


	29. Chapter 29

Sorry it's been so long. To make up for it, the chapter is quite a bit longer than usual.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

Now there had been a time, Lucien reflected, when his life was easy. Not to say he hadn't come across his fair share of challenges, but his good looks and charm – and failing that, his blades and his poisons – had carried him through any difficulties. If he wanted something, he could get it. If he wanted _someone_, he could have them. He carried with him a kind of effortlessness that inspired awe and envy in all those around him.

Then he met Caelan, and it had all gone downhill from there.

He was far too fond of the boy for his own good. Which was why he had waded across Cyrodil chasing an impossibility, despite having more important things to do like figuring out why Arquen was snooping around his home. Then he had doubled _back_ towards the Imperial City, now with a shifty, daedra-worshipping Dunmer in tow and hunting down an incredibly rare book. He'd actually been gullible enough to believe life was throwing him a bone when Caelan piped up about having the damn thing all along.

And now, standing in Caelan's utterly _empty_ Waterfront shack, he could do nothing but inwardly moan about how _unfair_ everything was, as well as sorely wishing he had some wine at hand. Brandy would be even better.

"But – what – I had-" Caelan looked bewilderedly around the tiny excuse for a house, though granted, with all the books gone it looked at least a little roomier than last time. "Thieves?"

"Mages' Guild," Olyn corrected him, nodding towards an official notice pinned to the back of the door: "'The total of...two-hundred and sixty-one books have been found and reclaimed by the Arcane University. The resident of this house and presumed thief is hereby ordered to pay the fine to a Watch Captain, or face imprisonment'."

"Well they'll have trouble enforcing that, I bought this place under a false name," the Altmer replied mildly, walking through the book-free space as though he still didn't believe what he was seeing, "Oh, they even took back all the silverware I managed to swipe from them. How rude!"

"I take it we're due for a trip to the University, then?" Lucien asked Olyn, "The sun is already setting. We should move soon or we'll end up waiting another day."

The Dunmer nodded, "A summoned daedroth should be a sufficient guard-distraction while you steal the book. And Caelan..."

"Can stay here," Lucien said firmly, "And wait for us to get back."

"What? But – _Lucien_," Caelan protested at once, "I want to come too."

"No. You're too clumsy, you'll end up getting caught, or getting _us_ caught."

"I won't! I'll be careful, really. Promise."

"Caelan, you can't walk from one end of a room to the other without tripping on your robes, knocking something over, or breaking anything delicate-"

"That's so unfair! All you do is insult me-"

"Stop arguing!" an exasperated Olyn spoke before the assassin could give his answer, "Lucien and I will go to the University. Caelan, you stay here."

"But-!"

"Your absent-mindedness is very charming and all, but not ideal for trying to steal a heavily-guarded book. Stay here," the other Elf interrupted, "We won't be too long."

"And don't go outside," Lachance added, "You'll risk the Imperial Watch spotting you, and the University will know who to look for when their book goes missing. Understood?"

"Understood," Caelan repeated, albeit with a sulky tone, half-heartedly kicking the floor for emphasis. "Fine. Have fun without me."

A more caring partner might have tried to cheer him up, or at least assured him that little fun would be had. Naturally, all Lucien did was tut his disapproval at the childish behaviour and leave with Olyn. He made sure to lock the door behind him.

And then immediately turned to the Dunmer; "His absent-mindedness is charming, is it?"

"I wondered how you'd react to that," Olyn murmured, "He _is_ charming, in a pitiful sort of way. One has to wonder how he ended up studying under Mannimarco, given he's not exactly..._conventionally _smart."

Lucien made a non-committal noise, but said nothing further on the subject. A silence lapsed between them as they walked along, just in time to catch the sun slowly sinking over the horizon and bathing the city in scarlet.

"No sense in trying the front door," Olyn declared once there were no guards around to overhear, though he kept his voice quiet just the same, "We'll have to follow the city perimeter and-"

"Scale over the rooftops. I know," Lucien finished primly, "I _have_ done this before, you realise."

"My apologies," if his tone didn't give away the falsity of that statement, the smirk certainly _did_, "Thought you might have gotten rusty, in your old age."

"Old?" that was genuinely insulting, "I'm middle-aged at a push. And in my profession, I think you'll find, the older ones are _less_ inept than their juniors."

"Touché," Olyn conceded, "So since you've lived a great deal longer than most assassins – Brotherhood, no less – you have fulfilled a great many contracts, yes?"

"That goes without saying. What of it?"

"Have you ever fallen in love with a target?"

He ought to have kept a better lid on his reactions, really. By the standards of most people he looked unfazed, but there had been the slight pause in his movements, shoulders tensed and eyes widened a fraction of an inch. He had no doubt Olyn had picked up on it. "Are you always so interested in the affairs of others, Dunmer?"

"Not at all. But it isn't every day one gets to speak to a paid killer." At least he could comfort himself with the fact that Olyn also couldn't hide his reactions. His expression barely masqueraded as a smile, the arrogance obvious even to someone who _didn't_ consider reading people to be part of his career. "Is the subject touchy for you?"

It was bait, intended to goad him into answering. He _knew_ it was bait, and Sithis help him, he fell for it anyway: "No, I've never fallen for a target. Assassins and sentiment don't mix well, you'll find. Fortunately I lack the capacity to feel any sort of compassion."

"Compassion and love are two very different things."

"I disagree. To care for someone you need to care for living creatures in general. I do not," was the brusque reply.

"Caelan would be the exception to the rule, then?"

He had been expecting the mer's name to crop up eventually, otherwise he might have been caught off-guard. "I'm not sure what you mean," he answered carefully, though beneath the neutral tone was the prominent urge to throttle the smug Conjurer, "I don't love Caelan. He knows that as well as I do."

"And yet here you are trying to find him an impossible cure; you've also freely admitted that you consider him 'yours'. Which means you must feel some degree of care and compassion for him," Olyn pointed out slyly, "And I do recall you telling me but a minute ago that you did not think compassion and love two different things. Your words, not mine."

Lucien gritted his teeth at the realisation that he'd been neatly strung along; Olyn of course noticed the action, and smiled that little smile of his like he'd _won._ Any other subject and the assassin might have commended him – he had a certain appreciation for the art of manipulating people even when he was the subject, because he so rarely encountered others at his level of finesse. But, as with everything involving Caelan these days, the topic struck a nerve. He'd somehow changed a great deal since meeting the Altmer, and without even realising it.

"I don't see what you hope to achieve," he answered at last, when he trusted himself to speak, "By forcing a false love confession out of me. If you crave drama, I would suggest a romance novel."

"Drama? No, I simply wish to see how you work," said Olyn, still smiling, _smirking._ "False love confession, you say? You still deny it?"

"Denial would imply I am lying to myself. I'm perfectly aware of what I do and don't feel," Lucien snapped before he could control his temper, "You wish to study me? Fine. I despise him but I can't stand the separation. I want to break him but I'd slaughter anyone who thought of doing the same. I don't want him to die, because I want to kill him over and over again," he finally stopped in his tracks, wheeling around to face the Dark Elf, who actually looked quite surprised; "Is that enough information for your curious little mind? Will you stop asking me these pointless, _infuriating_ questions?"

For a moment there were no words, only a silent glaring between the two men. Unwilling to engage in something as juvenile as a staring match, Lucien turned away with an almost-snarl, storming back on course to the University. Olyn followed, but kept his distance.

"I wonder," he drawled at last, "How long Caelan will stay by your side?"

Lucien did not pause again in his stride, but his disapproval was more than evident in the steeliness of his tone: "And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?"

"You're more unstable than you'd have people believe – and you'll kill anyone who says otherwise. I imagine I'd be added to that list if you didn't need me alive and complacent," Olyn told him, voice soft, words cutting, "Caelan could find someone better than you. Calmer. Less volatile."

Contrary to outrage, Lucien simply snorted; "Forgive me. I was not aware you were the boy's _mother._"

"Do you really think he'll stay with you forever? Even _without_ the invincibility he'll far outlive you. If you escape the fate of most assassins and make it to old age, he'll end up leaving you out of boredom."

"Hold your tongue, mer," the Imperial's tone had dropped from steel to ice, and suggested that under any other circumstances Olyn would be lying in a pool of his own blood by now, "Before I end up removing it."

"Intimidating me into silence? You must agree, then, even if you don't want to hear it," Lucien could not see the Conjurer's smirk, but he didn't need to, "And you know as well as I do, I need my tongue to restore Caelan's invincibility. Empty threats hold little weight, assassin."

"Let us hope you can complete your task, then, or I'll have no reason to leave you intact," was the reply, made all the darker by how pleasantly it was spoken, "So you say he'll tire of me...will a daedra-worshipper be his next fancy, then? Is it your arms he'll wander into?"

"My, but you _are_ a possessive one," grinned Olyn, far from being frightened, "But it isn't my intention to snatch him from you – I have no need for romance. I'm simply warning you of the inevitable."

"How kind of you," and that pleasantry took on just a hint of sharpness, "But next time I want my future told, I'll consult a fortune teller. I'm sure it will be about as accurate."

"So you think you can keep him?" the ensuing laugh, if it could be called that, held little mirth – a thin, cruel sound, "How precious."

Lucien said nothing, but one hand rested on the hilt of the short sword at his hip, caressing the cool silver metal and lamenting the fact that he couldn't use it. In the meantime, he'd have to make do with daydreams of ripping Olyn apart; maybe when this invincibility mess was over and done with, he could even put them into practise.

* * *

Back at the Waterfront shack, Caelan was bored.

He didn't like boredom. He could handle hunger, sickness, even outright agony, but he could never stand boredom. It didn't help that there was nothing to entertain himself with – not only were his books gone, but the Imperial Watch had taken everything that wasn't bolted down to cover a portion of his fine. They'd even confiscated his bedsheets.

And he really did try to stay occupied until Lucien's return. He tapped the rickety bed frame, he paced up and down the bare floorboards, he stared wistfully out of the tiny window. He hummed a nonsense tune, he tried and failed to do a handstand, he spent a short time thereafter rubbing his forming bruises and feeling sorry for himself. And after all of this, which had used up about fifteen minutes, he contemplated going outside.

Lucien had been pretty clear on the subject...but then, he and Olyn wouldn't be back for a few hours, and Caelan had already run out of things to do. A walk around the Waterfront would kill time nicely – he could even get back before Lucien did, and the man would be none of the wiser.

Of course, angry assassins weren't exactly the problem – it was being spotted by the Imperial Watch. And yet none of them knew what he looked like. Besides, the sun had already set, there were plenty of shadows to hide in if he _did_ get in trouble.

Maybe angry assassins _were_ the problem. He'd agreed to stay inside, and Lucien didn't take kindly to broken promises. Mind you, Caelan had only said he _understood_ the request, which wasn't technically an agreement. He'd never outright stated that he'd follow the order...

He glanced out of the window again, fidgeted with his sleeve, and then headed for the door. Lucien had locked it, but that was little obstruction with his trusty Alteration spell at hand. With the door open he stepped outside, breathing in the cool night air and relishing that certain sense of freedom he got from disobeying Lucien.

...Only to a certain extent though. He probably had the time to wander beyond the Waterfront, but decided to just stay put; it wasn't like there'd be any shops open at this time of night anyway. Instead he made his way to the docks, settling down to watch the city lights reflected in the dark, still water. A little further up, the Bloated Float tavern glowed with the merriment inside, a drunken chorus of song slowly climbing in volume as it rang across the otherwise quiet harbour. The Imperial City was never silent, but after sundown it took on a somewhat muffled quality as most of its residents retired indoors. Maybe it was too much time spent in Lucien's company, but he appreciated the peace of it. At least, more than he would have done just a few months before.

He spent the next hour or so thinking of Lucien. There was little point in trying to label their relationship – it wasn't precisely love-hate, it wasn't even _love_, nor friendship or even affection. Yet Lucien claimed to be obsessed, and Caelan thought he might feel the same, given how often the man crossed his mind. But obsession was supposed to be a poor imitation of love, a weak and watered-down charade of it. Whatever he felt wasn't love, precisely, but it was just as strong, and probably just as destructive. He didn't know how it would end up, or how long it was last – surely something so fierce would burn itself out soon enough. But while the smarter thing to do was walk away before things turned ugly, he just couldn't do it. Besides, he had nowhere else to go.

As he was so involved in these thoughts, it took him a while to notice, reflected in the surface of the water, someone standing behind him.

He immediately turned to face the woman, her skin an unusually greenish shade for a Dunmer, and her smile oddly detached from her unblinking eyes. But what mostly caught his attention was the black robes she wore, so dark that they almost bled into the surrounding shadows. The red Necromancer insignia emblazoned on the front, however, stood out like an open wound.

He recognised her face as another one of Mannimarco's hand-picked apprentices: "N-Noveni..."

"Hello Caelan," her smile did not falter, and her voice remained eerily pleasant, "Lovely evening, isn't it?"

"...I suppose," he glanced about for the nearest guard, only to realise, to his horror, that they were all currently tending to a fight that had broken out in The Bloated Float. His end of the dock was completely empty.

"You know, we've been looking for you for quite a while," and at that word _we_, Caelan quickly noticed another robed Necromancer stood a further distance away, but watching him just as intently as Noveni. Then he spotted another...and another...and another...

"Really now?" his voice came out far weaker than he had intended, "And why would that be?"

Noveni's smile widened a fraction, before she lunged for him. He narrowly avoided her grasp, rolling away and scrambling to his feet. Two Necromancers blocked his path towards the guards, so he ran back to the small collection of shacks where the city scourge lived, himself amongst them. He might've stood a better chance at losing them if he'd weaved between the maze of houses, but in his panic his only thought was to get back inside.

He didn't even get the door closed. A summoned zombie almost ripped it off its hinges, pinning him against the nearest wall with supernatural strength. His Turn Undead spell was useless against it; he'd never paid attention when Mannimarco tried to teach him a stronger version, since he'd thought it was a useless spell that he'd never end up using. And now he could do no more than flail futilely against the zombie's stranglehold as the other Necromancers entered his home.

"So you've been hiding here all along," Noveni commented, glancing about the place disdainfully, "To go from being Mannimarco's top student to _this_...what were you thinking? Why would you throw such an opportunity away?"

He might've answered – mostly to point out that he'd actually been hiding in and around Cheydinhal – but he couldn't speak through the grip on his throat. Even when the undead faded away like any summoned creature and left him to fall to his knees, he was too busy gasping and wheezing for air to reply.

"I don't suppose you could come up with a decent explanation anyway," the Dunmer woman spoke, then directed the other mages: "Knock him out. This place is too small, we'll find somewhere more spacious."

_What for?_ Not that he really needed to ask even if he were physically capable. A hooded Necromancer strode forwards, but rather than employing magic, backhanded him sharply. He heard the _crick_ as his neck abruptly turned from the force of it, but by some small act of mercy, he blacked out before the pain could register.


	30. Chapter 30

Wooo, the big three-zero! I do believe this is my longest story to date, though I get the feeling Anathema will catch up eventually. It's also my most popular, since it currently has 232 reviews, 99 favs and 82 alerts, and almost 30,000 hits (Cheesus Crust O_O). So a big thank you to everyone who's read and shown their appreciation for the story thus far.

Now I was about half way through writing the intended chapter before I realised it was quite a bit longer than all the others. I like my chapters to be roughly the same length for the sake of neatness, so I thought it better to submit what I had instead of waiting another week or two to give you a behemoth update. This does mean, however, that I already have a big chunk of chapter 31 penned out, so hopefully the next update won't take almost two months this time (sorry about that...)

* * *

**Chapter Thirty**

He was somewhere dark.

He'd awoken mid-way through being carried to... wherever he was now. Limited as his view was at being slung over someone's shoulder, he had only been able to make out bland, grey walls and floor, the details trickling away as he was taken further from any source of light. He tried to inhale, to _smell_ any clue to his location, but as he quickly remembered, he couldn't detect scent, not anymore. Nor taste, and some of his other senses were unstable too. He could only hope he'd emerge with all functions intact by the time this was over.

"So you're awake," he identified the voice as Noveni, addressed first to him and then someone else: "Light a torch, we can get started."

He squinted a little at the sudden burst of orange flame, which dimmed as it dispersed over the torch set into one of the walls. He glanced first down at his wrists, which were bound in thick, coarse rope, and then up at his kidnappers. Five Necromancers, as pallid and sunken as the corpses they worked with, looked back at him with an unsettling bloodlust in their eyes. Noveni was at the forefront, and he recognised the smirk on her face as a prelude to trouble.

"I'd let me go if I were you," Caelan warned them with far more bravado than he felt, "I have someone travelling with me, and when he finds out what happened-"

"No-one's going to rescue you," one of the nameless Necromancers interrupted coolly, "You don't have the money to hire a bodyguard, and even if you did, you could only afford a thug. Not someone smart enough to actually track you down."

"I didn't hire him! And he's not a thug, he's – he's an assassin, if you must know. A really dangerous one."

"I thought you just said you didn't hire anyone?"

"I didn't. He's with me for... for companionship." Well, a mutual fondness for blood and sadomasochistic sex counted as companionship... right?

"You befriended an assassin?" Noveni repeated dubiously, "Right. Of course you did."

"That's right, I did."

"That was sarcasm," she pointed out, irritated, "Caelan, you have made it through life relatively unscathed despite being as annoying as you are, because most people are too moral to kill someone on the spot. Why would someone with no such qualms put up with you?"

"I'm not annoying. I got told I was charming earlier," the mer pointed out haughtily.

"Let me guess, by this same assassin?"

He sniffed; "No. By a master Conjurer, actually."

"Rubbing elbows with the elite now, are we?" she gave a snort, "Don't make me laugh. This wouldn't be the first time you've made up people who know and adore you, but that's far-fetched even by your standards. The _only_ person who considered you worth the hassle of your personality was Mannimarco, at least until you went and killed him."

"He tried to kill me first!"

"Because you stole his Staff of Worms."

"But it wasn't like it was the first thing I'd ever taken from him-"

"Exactly," she snapped, "Do you honestly think he'd tolerate any of _us_ stealing from him all the time?" she gestured at the other Necromancers, a harsh bitterness to her tone, "You already got lax treatment, what more did you want? Round-the-clock attention? It's no wonder everyone gets sick of you after a while. You're hard work."

"Well – well – I've found someone who _isn't_ sick of me. And you know what? You can go ahead and torture me or whatever. When he finds you, you'll be sorry," and in an angry mutter, he added, "You can't hurt me anyways."

"Oh can't we?" Noveni took out her dagger, tossing it idly in her hand, "That sounds like a challenge."

Caelan did not flinch at the sight of the weapon, used to such intimidating displays from Lucien, "You can't. Whatever you do, I'll keep coming back. I'm unkillable."

"I know."

"That's right, unkill- wait, what? You know?"

"I know," she repeated, that smirk spreading slowly across her features again, like a jackal eyeing its prey, "That stunt you pulled with the Staff of Worms. And I also happen to know the your invincibility isn't quite working right at the moment."

He stared at her, wide-eyed, "But... how do you...?"

"In Echo cave, where you killed our Master, you left a symbol on the floor. Or should I say, Mannimarco did," she ran the blade up one of his arms, tearing his robes in the process, "I copied it, studied it. I know exactly what he did to you, to the Staff."

Something trembled through him. It was so unfamiliar, it took him a few moments to recognise and name it – fear. Not the kind of fear Lucien evoked, the type that came with admiration and lust as well. This was raw fear. Even before binding the Staff he'd always been reckless, he'd never truly worried for his safety. But now... "What did he do?"

"Why should I tell you?" she laughed, flicking the scraps of Caelan's ruined sleeves aside with her blade edge, "You'll find out soon enough, after all. I'm just here to speed along the process... and have some fun in the meanwhile. Now let's see about that 'you can't hurt me' thing, shall we?"

* * *

Back when the now-Chancellor Ocato had just been a lowly Arch-Mage, the gates of the Arcane University had been free for all and any mages to come and go as they pleased. Obviously this made assassination ridiculously easy; the last time Lucien had been called upon for such a task he'd breezed in wearing a scholar's robe, rigged an Alchemy explosion, and hung around long enough to watch the blood paint the walls. But times had changed since then, with a new person in charge, and a new policy to keep the university gates firmly shut.

...Not that this could stop him from entering any time he wished. Of course he saw the blind spot on the roof long before Olyn pointed it out, with that arrogant swagger in his voice and his I'm-cleverer-than-you smirk. He told the mer as much, who challenged him as to why he didn't mention it first, then? And Lucien answered with a worryingly short temperament that assassins didn't go about outwardly announcing their breaking and entering plans to the world, did they?

He was going to turn into Alval Uvani at this rate. Although, he thought wistfully, his fellow Speaker would have frozen Olyn's mouth shut by now. It almost made Lucien wish he'd taken up Destruction magic instead of Alchemy, were it not for the immense amount of dedication it required. Surprising that someone as impatient as Uvani had managed to master it, but then Lachance supposed the short-fused Dunmer got plenty of practise, what with setting half the people he met on fire.

He quietly vowed to introduce Olyn and Alval the next time he got the opportunity.

"This is a good vantage point," was uttered as if on cue by said insufferable Conjurer, "I'll summon a daedroth or two to keep them busy. The Mystic Archives are right over there, but I imagine they'll have the encyclopedia carefully hidden away, especially after having it stolen."

"Just buy me as much time as possible," Lucien murmured, being used to silence on his contracts. Olyn took the hint and stayed quiet himself, flicking one wrist out as he conjured, then unbound the creature from its servitude.

And then there was chaos.

As soon as the battlemage guards had fled from their posts, Lucien dropped from the roof, landing soundlessly, though the fact was moot given all the background noise. Over the din of steel daggers and lightening against tough scales, the hellish daedroth snarls and panicked mages' cries, no-one noticed the door to the Mystic Archives open and close, seemingly of its own accord.

Once he had determined no-one was in the Archives with him, Lucien dropped the chameleon spell and bolted the door to prevent any further interruptions. Despite being alone, he kept his movements to a whisper as he prowled about the shelves and shelves of books. He ghosted his fingers over leather-bound covers, mouthing the titles: _Children of the Sky, Fundaments of Alchemy, Manual of Spellcraft._ He couldn't find the encyclopedia on any of the shelves and so began to inspect the glass display cases instead.

Outside, the daedroth roars faded into silence, only to start up again as Olyn summoned anew. The guards had realised that a Conjurer was responsible and shouted out a search order.

The cases yielded nothing. Perhaps the encyclopedia had once been displayed, but not after being stolen so easily; as always Caelan had managed to inadvertently make things more difficult, but it couldn't be helped. He continued his search on the second floor but still couldn't find the damn thing. Not tucked away beneath, behind, on top or within anything that he could see.

He leaned against a nearby table, drumming his fingers against a copy of _The Lusty Argonian Maid_ while the symphony of screams and daedra remained audible, albeit muffled by the thick walls. He was running out of time, they'd find Olyn... and while he entertained the idea of letting the man get caught and thrown in jail for a bit then breezing in later as a rescue party, it was too risky and too time-consuming to justify the end result, however satisfying. But back on subject, where was this book? He was half-convinced it had been locked away in another part of the University; after all, why would they keep such an important item in the first place any thief would look? But then again, the best place to hide a book would be among hundreds of other books... right?

And then.

He wasn't sure what made him take notice. A brief lull in the action outside gave him time to think, maybe. But it occurred to him that this particular volume of _The Lusty Argonian Maid_ was considerably thicker than usual. On closer inspection, the pages were oddly yellowed with age. And when he opened up the book half way through out of suspicion, he found _not_ the infamously bawdy play staring back at him, but an assortment of arcane glyphs and symbols.

Binding it in another book cover... clever, Lucien had to admit. _The Lusty Argonian Maid_ wasn't exactly academic material as per the standard of the Mystic Archives; rather, it tended to be found tucked away in desks or drawers. It wouldn't look out of place in the Arch-Mages' quarters, for example, which was probably the intended destination of this particular copy. But its fate now lay in the hands of the assassin, who picked it up with a muttered praise to Sithis, tucked it under one arm, and then faded into nothingness as his chameleon spell took hold.

By the time he climbed back onto the roof, Olyn had shifted a little to avoid notice by the guards, who had soon enough realised their mystery Conjurer was somewhere on the roof. He tapped the Dunmer's shoulder to identify himself, derived some satisfaction from the barely-suppressed flinch of startlement this elicited. As the last daedroth faded from existence, the two men slipped down from the roof and back outside the city perimeter, leaving the University behind them.

"They'll realise it was a distraction, of course," Olyn said, and glanced over at where he deemed the still-invisible Lucien to be – annoyingly, he got it right, "You can drop the Illusion spell now. I need to see the book."

Lucien complied only because he wished to see Olyn's reaction to the book's choice of disguise. He was not at all disappointed as he handed it over: a raised eyebrow, an incredulous pause, and a good ten seconds or so of dumbfounded silence before Olyn was able to say, "This... isn't the encyclopedia."

"Open it up," Lucien answered smoothly, easily rivalling Olyn for smugness as the mer found pages upon pages of intricate symbols beneath his fingers. Whatever irritation the Conjurer may have felt at being fooled was overcome by the relief that this was indeed the correct book, as well as a certain reverence for what he was holding. Unknown to Lucien, he'd traced the words of this book once before, in his youth. The insight he'd gained was, in Olyn's opinion, the only thing that made all those years in the Mages' Guild worth it; unfortunately, being caught in feverish study of the encyclopedia was also what got him expelled. Too power-hungry, they'd claimed, and Olyn hadn't bothered to correct them that it was _knowledge-_hungry, because in the end it amounted to the same thing.

"So are you planning to stroke the pages all night, or shall we get a move on?" Lucien interrupted. Olyn glared but spared him the snippy reply, instead walking on ahead with the book held close to his chest.

Meanwhile, Lucien was in relatively high spirits. He had the book, and without leaving any witnesses behind. More importantly, he had a sense of superiority over Olyn, which felt much akin to drinking an incredibly rare and expensive wine, and left a similarly sweet aftertaste in his mouth. In fact, his mood was absolutely perfect until he reached the Waterfront.

On account of walking ahead, Olyn saw it first, pausing abruptly in his tracks. Lucien, too careful to bump into the back of him, took notice at once, instead advancing with a frown. Before he could open his mouth to ask what was wrong, he saw his answer. Namely the door to Caelan's home, or rather, what was left of it.

And for quite possibly the first time in his life, Lucien Lachance was speechless.

Responsiveness kicked in. He strode past the motionless Olyn – almost a run, and would've been were the shack not so close – and through the ruined, splintered doorway. And he knew Caelan wouldn't be there; the door had been ripped off, this was a _hunter_, not some petty thief. But still the alien and unwelcome nausea of panic gripped him when he found the house empty. There was no bloodshed, but then Caelan's blood vanished as soon as he was killed and revived. Besides, any idiot could see the signs of struggle in here.

Wait... someone must have seen this happen. A house being so viciously broken into wouldn't have gone unnoticed – he doubted anyone would've stepped in to help a High Elf stranger being dragged off for fear of their own safety, but they would've at least _seen_ who was responsible. He marched back outside and-

-Olyn had beaten him to it. A beggar, dragged thrashing and flailing from his bedroll, was currently being dangled several inches above the ground by a brawny dremora. A clawed hand was clapped over his mouth to stop any screams for help, but the human was probably too terrified to even try.

Nevertheless, Olyn uttered in a silken murmur, "Co-operate and you won't be hurt. Alert anyone and I'll have him tear your throat out. Are we clear?"

The beggar nodded frantically, not needing any convincing on this particular subject. At Olyn's whim the dremora lowered its hand, purposefully resting it against the expanse of pale, scrawny throat. Dispassionate in the face of such fear, Olyn continued his interrogation, "Now, what happened here?"

"I-I didn't see nothing-"

"Lying is extremely bad for your health," Olyn interrupted smoothly as the silent dremora tightened its hold on the man. There sounded the strain of bones close to snapping, and a whimper of terror and pain.

"A-alright! I didn't – I didn't see them break in, I swear. I swear!" he repeated, panicked, as the dremora shifted slightly, "But I-I saw them leaving the Waterfront, carrying a man in mage robes. Th-they spelled the guards so's they could get past without being noticed."

"What did they look like?" Olyn asked. For a voice so soft, it was remarkable how dangerous he sounded. Lucien was reluctantly impressed.

"D-didn't get a good look at them. They were wearing black robes, hoods up. There was a woman leading them, I-I heard her speak."

As Lucien went very, very still, a single name flashed in his mind, as bright and deadly as an inferno: _Arquen._ It had to be, he couldn't think of anyone else that might be pursuing him. He still didn't know _why_ she was after Caelan, but if she had enlisted others from the Black Hand as aid, it couldn't be good. Before he could fathom her reasoning any further, however, Olyn went on: "What did she say?"

"S-something about taking him – the man, the mage that is – underground. Wh-where no-one would hear him..."

… _Scream. Cry. Call for help, beg for mercy._ The leather of his gauntlets creaked as Lucien's hands tightened into fists. Only _he_ was allowed to hurt Caelan like that.

"I see. Any more questions to ask?" this was directed at Lucien, who only shook his head, staring at the ground as though contemplating whether a mass-murder spree would help his mood at all. "Well then, I do believe that's everything. Needless to say, if you divulge our little discussion to anyone, expect a visit from me. Or him," he indicated the dremora. The beggar probably didn't know what 'divulge' meant but got the general idea, and nodded with as much vigour as he could. "Excellent. Thank you for your help."

No sooner had the dremora let the pitiful man go when he, after an unsteady landing on his feet, ran for dear life. Olyn watched him go as one would watch a startled deer bound away, with mild interest but little sympathy.

"He'll probably tell. Some Thieves Guild member will coax it out of him," he remarked as though discussing the weather. He was talking to the dremora, Lucien quickly realised. "When that happens, I'll summon you again. No sense in empty threats."

The dremora inclined its head – considerably more respect than one of its kind would usually show towards a mortal, but if Olyn was a master Conjurer then he was probably on first-name terms with his summonings by now. As the dremora faded back into Oblivion, Olyn turned to Lachance.

"Sewers," the assassin said shortly.

"A logical choice. They're as vast as the city, though. Caelan could be anywhere."

"Each of the districts has its own section of the sewer, but not the Waterfront – it's too poor for that," Lucien told him, "They'll have had to drag Caelan through the streets before they could get underground, so they'll have chosen the nearest access point possible, which would be the Talos Plaza entrance. So we at least known where to start looking."

"Lead the way, then," Olyn glanced down at the book in his hands, then at the doorway to Caelan's ruined shack, "I'll just have to take this with me. You can handle any close combat, right?"

"Of course." In truth, he wasn't so sure. If he was correct in his assumption that it was Arquen... well, she was a Speaker. It went without saying that she'd be a tough fight even on her own, never mind alongside however many others she'd taken along. It only just occurred to him that he might have to kill her, breaking one of his tenets – members of the Black Hand were exempt from the Wrath of Sithis, but it was the principle of the thing. Could he really kill a fellow Dark Sister?

He supposed it depended on why she was chasing him and Caelan. If she was prepared to explain herself, he was prepared to hear her out. If she simply attacked him... well then, it was just self-preservation, wasn't it?

His ran one hand over the handle of his sword, jaw tensed in anticipation of what was to come, what he might have to do, and declared: "Let's go."


	31. Chapter 31

Black the Nerevar: Wait, wait, wait. Wait. You mean to tell me that the ENTIRE story was ruined for you, because I haven't put in an explicit sex scene? You do know it's actually against the ffnet rules to post that stuff here, right? Even if it wasn't, I'm not too keen on this apparent 'rule' that all yaoi stories must contain some excruciatingly detailed smut.

In fact I have some pretty strong words for you on why gay men – _or_ lesbian women – shouldn't be seen as purely sexual objects, but I'm not going to waste my time and energy typing out a rant you probably won't even read. So I'll just answer you: Will I one day write a sex scene? Yes. Will I post it here? No, because it violates the rules. I had in fact planned to sit down and write one recently, but because you asked so impolitely, I think I'll put it off a while longer.

I would've sent you all this personally, but you didn't leave me an email address, so you can thank yourself for being publicly named and shamed.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-One**

There were guards about even at this time of night, but their tiredness, combined with plenty of shadows to hide in, made them easy enough to avoid. Even a group of people carrying an unconscious Altmer wouldn't have too much trouble. Undetected, the pair reached the Talos Plaza, and the circular utility hole that served as an entrance to the sewer system. The cover was, Lucien noticed, slightly ajar.

They descended in silence. The pathway down the sewers was grim and grey-walled, dirty light from the outside world filtering in from overhead. Reflections rippled over every surface as it hit the water, warping the shadows of the two men as they passed. They followed the fresh footsteps in the grime-coated floor; Lucien counted out the individual pairs and noted five people in total.

His fingers itched to draw his blade, but he knew it would be a wasted effort; Caelan's kidnappers had _not_ taken him down here for a friendly chat, and that meant they would have dragged him in further to minimise the risk of discovery, somewhere the light could not reach.

"Can you hear that?" Olyn murmured.

Lucien listened. Above the drip drop of water leakage, the skittering of cockroaches and the general ambience of the sewers, there were voices. Too dim and distant to distinguish any words, though he was certain the sound belonged to the kidnappers. As an assassin his hearing was already better-honed than most, but as an elf Olyn had the superiority here; "Can you make out anything in particular?"

"... Laughter."

Lucien's features darkened, "Let's go."

As they advanced, the trail became darker and dingier, more shunned from the outside world. Recently-slain goblins had been unceremoniously thrown into the canals of sewage water, a further contamination. The laughter grew louder, crueller, but Lucien didn't recognise any of the voices. They were too close to confer without being overheard, so Lachance simply dropped into a crouch and gestured for Olyn to do the same, soundlessly advancing, until he saw Caelan.

Now Lucien Lachance was not shocked at the sight of blood; he spilled it for a living, after all. If anything he appreciated the sight with a keenness even most assassins would baulk at, though no doubt his enthusiasm was what landed him the position of Speaker. The living body was a fascinating thing, from the machinery of muscle, sinew and skeleton to the way it all came apart so _easily_ if you knew where to cut.

So was he shocked, to see Caelan scarlet-drenched, and closer to dead than alive? No. But he was quite upset, if only from an artisan's viewpoint. They'd wrenched his arm out without bothering to dislocate it first, _completely_ missed the jugular vein on his neck, that eye wasn't gouged out properly, and what on Mundus had they done to his right leg? No no no, it was all wrong. Crude, ugly, lazy and _wrong._

It swiftly reminded him why only he should be allowed to treat Caelan in such a way. The mer was _his_ lover, _his_ toy, _his_ property. Mild annoyance turned to anger that only grew in viciousness as he watched Caelan being ripped apart. There were no screams or cries – he'd probably become numbed to it, but Lucien still inwardly praised the boy on not giving his kidnappers the satisfaction – only the _snap _and _crunch_ and _tear_ of torture.

Olyn tugged on his clothing to get his attention. Unable to speak aloud, the elf mouthed the word: _Necromancers._

Lucien's frown tightened as he glanced back at the five, and sure enough noticed the crimson insignia on their black robes. For a moment he was confused as to why they would specifically want Caelan, but he soon remembered: Mannimarco. This was an act of revenge, then, which explained the raw brutality of their methods. Even so, Necromancers were supposed to know their way around anatomy, not simply wrench asunder as wilder beasts did, and as they were doing now.

But Necromancers were a vast improvement on Black Hand members, mainly because he now no longer had to worry as to why Arquen would be hunting Caelan. Necromancers were much easier to understand, to predict – and of course, easier to kill.

It had been too long since he had spilled blood as an assassin. A Speaker's duty lay in negotiation and networking, not dirty work – an element Lucien always sorely missed, but especially now, when he revisited just how good the thrill of the hunt felt. His crouch dropped lower still, almost panther-like, dangerous and predatory. His fingertips tingled beneath his leather gloves as he fondly thumbed the decorative handle of his shortsword; the blade whispered to him as he slid it from its sheath, and so, it seemed, did Sithis himself, with twined words of encouragement and sadism. _Kill for me._

Like any dedicated servant, Lucien obeyed.

* * *

They didn't stand a chance.

Olyn was fully aware that Lucien was an assassin, and a high-ranking one at that. And Brotherhood assassins were notoriously vicious, not like the Morag Tong of Morrowind, who favoured efficiency over brutality. On top of all that, Lucien had displayed particularly sadistic tendencies even by a hired murderers standards, coupled with a distinct lack of remorse over what he had done in the past, or hesitation over what he might have to do in the future. Olyn _knew_ all this, and yet it was one thing to know and quite another to see it in action.

Two Necromancers were down before the others even noticed, their blood mingling with Caelan's. One spotted the shadow of movement and tried to fight, died before he could even brandish his dagger, gurgling wetly. Another scrambled away and was intercepted. Over the howl of pain sounded three sharp clicks: a broken arm, then shoulder, then neck. It was brutal _and_ efficient; Lachance killed with the kind of ease that could only come with a high body count clocked up over the years. How many people had the Imperial subjected to torture, to snap bones and sever tendons with such methodical precision?

The only remaining Necromancer was the woman, the leader. She was smart enough to try and run, but Lucien had her restrained in the blink of an eye, dragging her down to the carnage-coated floor. He sat atop her, pinning her down with his own weight.

Olyn quickly rose from his hiding place; "Don't kill her just yet."

"Wasn't planning to," Lucien replied through gritted teeth, "That'd be too kind."

"We need her alive for questioning."

There sounded the short, harsh bark of laughter, if something so humourless could be called that, "What is there to find out? I already know why she took Caelan. She's part of Mannimarco's cult, she wants revenge."

"Vengeance doesn't work on someone who can't die," although when he glanced at the figure still curled up motionless on the ground, he wasn't so sure if that statement still held true. Lucien evidently shared his thoughts, and his pointed glance was a wordless order for Olyn to go and inspect.

He approached the corpse, kneeling down and rolling it over to get a better view. It didn't help much – he would never have identified it as Caelan were it not for the tattered remains of teal robes. He was quite obviously still dead, but everything was so mangled that Olyn couldn't tell if the Staff had started healing him yet.

"He'll come back," those words were uttered, surprisingly, by the female Necromancer on the floor, "There's some life left in him yet."

Wait, that voice was familiar... "Noveni?"

She twisted her head as far upwards as she could, given her incapacity, "The fates have a way of throwing us together, Olyn. How many times have we run into each other since leaving the Mages Guild?" her voice took on a hint of sultriness, "Perhaps we were meant to be a couple after all."

The Conjurer snorted; "Hardly. You only go for people who are easy to manipulate. How _is_ Aldos, by the way?"

"In Cheydinhal, alone. He stopped being useful."

Olyn shook his head, "You haven't changed at all."

"Excuse me," Lucien's frosty glare and tone was directed at both of them, "But I was under the impression that you wanted to interrogate her, not catch up on gossip."

"_Interrogate._ Such an ugly word," Noveni cut in, tutting, "I think it would be easier on everyone if I simply told you what you need to know, yes?"

The other Dunmer raised a brow, "How very co-operative of you."

She gave him a superficial smile; "Being surrounded by what's left of your colleagues does wonders for that sort of thing."

"You're not going to put up any resistance at all?" Lachance murmured softly, dangerously as he stroked the flat edge of his blade down one side of her face, "How dull. I was hoping to have some fun."

"Yes, I'd gathered that was your idea of entertainment," she replied with admirable coolness, glancing again at the little bits of Necromancer littering the floor, "You wouldn't happen to be an assassin, would you?"

"An assassin contemplating whether to remove that glib tongue of yours."

She ignored that. "And Olyn, you pursued Conjuration. Became a master at it," when he nodded, she sighed, mostly to herself, "One of those rare occasions when Caelan was actually telling the truth for once... I guess there really _are_ people who can withstand him for more than five minutes-" she winced a little when Lucien abruptly twisted his blade, sending a shallow cut into her skin, "He wasn't lying about having the _affection_ of an assassin either," she added in a mutter.

"Olyn. Ask your questions," Lucien declared, his voice oddly calm and flat. Olyn wondered if he always sounded like that before a kill, "If she proves useful I may just leave her intact."

Intact, but not necessarily alive. In fact, he was absolutely sure Lucien had no intention of letting Noveni go. Best to wring as much information out of her as possible, then, "We'll start with the obvious: why did you kidnap Caelan?"

"Obvious questions get obvious answers. I wanted to kill him, of course."

"For murdering Mannimarco?" it was Lucien who asked this time, in that cold and even tone, "That was months ago, why have you waited until now to act?"

Her gaze shifted from the Conjurer to the assassin, "Barring the fact that he's not the easiest person to track down... we wanted to observe first, find out how powerful he'd become. He killed our Master, after all," and then Noveni glanced over at Caelan's body, still crumpled on the floor and waiting to revive, a sneer on her face, "He's not powerful. But he's unkillable, and that's why Mannimarco fell."

"If you knew of his invincibility, why bother with revenge?" Olyn questioned.

"Arguably the potential for revenge is even greater when the subject continues to re-awake. But as I'm sure you're aware, he's going to stop coming back eventually."

"I know, yes. But I'm much more interested in how _you_ know."

"Mannimarco altered the properties of the Staff, painting the glyph in his own blood. Caelan may have fled the scene, but he left the symbol behind. I copied it, studied it, decrypted it," and with a sweet smile that immediately raised both men's suspicions, she suggested: "Perhaps I could draw it out for you?"

Olyn trusted her about as far as he could throw her, but he had no choice – a copy of Mannimarco's symbol was too good of an opportunity to let go. "Let her up," he told Lucien, who although reluctant, seemed to share his thoughts, and allowed her to sit up. "You can draw the glyph on the floor. You have your ink," he nodded at the soaked carcasses of her colleagues.

Her smile wavered, but she obediently wetted one finger with blood, and began tracing the glyph. He watched her progress, ensuring she would not try to mislead them, as Lucien kept his blade at hand. He found himself impressed with Noveni's memory: the drawing was ornate, and even he would have struggled to recall every detail. When she had finished she sat back, an oddly satisfied smile on her lips, and was silent.

"Well?" Olyn asked, "Aren't you going to explain what it means?"

Her gaze still trained on the bloody symbol before her, she answered evenly: "You're the Master Conjurer here, Olyn. Surely you can decode it yourself?"

"I fail to see why I should spend several days puzzling it out when I have someone who already knows the answer. Or have you decided to stop being co-operative?"

Her smile widened eerily, "I don't feel like helping you anymore."

"Funny, that," Lucien remarked, running the tip of his shortsword along her spine, "I don't feel like letting you live anymore either."

"You intended to kill me from the start, assassin. Don't think I didn't know that."

"But you know that he can kill you quickly and cleanly, or... the alternative," the other Dunmer told her, coaxed her, "Your life is forfeit either way; you have nothing to lose by answering our questions, but you can gain a more merciful death."

"I would lose nothing if I served only myself, perhaps. But I do not," was the still-calm reply, "Mannimarco will have his revenge on Caelan. I don't intend to ruin that by giving away all his secrets."

"Mannimarco is gone," Olyn intoned softly, "Loyalty to a dead man is useless. Is he really worth your martyrdom?"

At last she glanced sideways, and flashed him a sharp, wicked grin; "Oh, I have no intention of dying."

The corpses of her fallen comrades twitched. It was the only warning before all four suddenly rose, latching onto them both. And in that split-second when Lucien couldn't use his blade and Olyn couldn't use his spells, she had hauled herself to her feet and dashed away.

"Don't-" Olyn began as he watched Lachance move to pursue Noveni, despite the two recently-animated bodies clinging onto him. The Conjurer irritably banished them with a turn undead spell. "Don't!" he shouted again, and when his words went ignored he grabbed Lucien himself, pulling him back.

"What do you think you're doing?" the man hissed when he couldn't shake off Olyn's grip, "We have to stop her!"

"She would get rid of her Necromancers robes and then lead you all through the Imperial City," he snapped back, "An armed man in a black robe chasing a seemingly helpless and terrified woman – who do you think the guards will attack?"

There was no arguing with that logic. Lucien's surrender was marked by the very slight relaxation of his posture, but his tone remained surly: "We shouldn't have let her draw out the symbol."

"Don't be silly. This is the most useful information we have."

"Provided it's correct, of course. She said herself she didn't intend to ruin Mannimarco's revenge, why would she give us such a lead?"

"As a tease, maybe. It all looks genuine to me, at any rate," the mer again used blood as ink as he copied Noveni's symbol, scaled down, into a spare page of the Encyclopedia, which he still had in his possession. Meticulously tracing the details with one wetted fingernail, he remarked to Lucien: "This might take a while. You should check on Caelan... how long has he been out, you think?"

"About twenty minutes," was the muttered reply, though Olyn couldn't say if the annoyance stemmed from that particular fact, or at Noveni's lucky escape. Probably both. He was just as irritated, though perhaps also a little admiring of the other Dunmer – both at her idea to use her dead colleagues and at how efficiently she had raised them.

Meanwhile Lucien, angry but compliant, marched over to Caelan's body and sat himself down. The damage had been mostly healed by the Staff in the elapsed time, and finally he could recognise the youthful Altmer – half-Altmer – face of his lover.

Lover. Odd word. There was no love involved in their relationship, unless you counted a mutual love of sadomasochism. Closer to obsession and, yes, co-dependence; he hated it, but there was no sugar-coating his reality. The idea of Caelan one day not being there made his skin crawl, mostly because he couldn't picture what he would do without him. Get mad, hunt down those responsible in a blazing revenge, maybe. But what then? He'd already found it hard enough to function last time he and Caelan had parted ways. If that absence was made permanent... would he bear that mundane, unsatisfying existence for the rest of his days? Would he burn out like an extinguished candle, into something small and weak and pathetic? Or would he suddenly snap, turn into... well, who knew what?

No. No, that couldn't happen. He had to save Caelan, not for Caelan's sake, but his own. If he was going to be co-dependent, he was going to make sure that no-one could ever take the boy away from him. He had no intention of facing up to what he would become should he ever lose the odd, addictive little mer he had somehow become enamoured with.

And just when he thought he had been making progress towards that goal, some upstart Necromancers had to go and ruin everything. Two steps forward, one step back... once all this was over, he swore to track down Noveni and thank her personally for this little setback. She was quite mistaken if she thought she had escaped unscathed.

The High Elf beside him stirred; Noveni had claimed that Caelan's invincibility had not yet vanished but even so, he couldn't quite suppress the feeling of relief. "Found you," he murmured in his usual deep, throaty purr, intended as a way to identify himself, and to reassure the boy, "The Necromancers are dead. You're safe."

"...Lucien?" Caelan whispered unsurely, as if not trusting his ears. He sat up abruptly, startling the assassin, and even Olyn glanced over from his spot a few feet away. The mages' voice became a little louder, a little shriller, "Is that you?"

"Sshh, calm down," evidently Caelan was too panicked to realise Lachance was right next to him, instead wildly glancing about. He touched the Elf's arm to still him, "I'm right here, see?"

"No..."

Lucien frowned; "No? What do you mean?"

"I can't... I can't see you," was Caelan's terrified declaration, loosely grasping at the cloth of Lucien's robe with an uncertainty that confirmed his words, "I can't see anything. Lucien, I'm – I think I'm blind."


	32. Chapter 32

Terribly sorry for keeping you all waiting for so long.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

Admittedly, Lucien didn't believe him at first.

Caelan was an attention-seeker, and not above exaggerating the truth – even outright lying – if it meant he would be fussed over. It was therefore perfectly reasonable if Lucien was unsympathetic and dismissive of Caelan's insistence that yes he was blind, and no he wasn't a compulsive liar. It was only when the boy scowled at him, or rather, completely misjudged his position and ended up glaring daggers at a wall instead, that he realised Caelan honestly couldn't see anymore. He conceded, and the argument abruptly gave way to depressing silence.

"We need to leave the city," Olyn announced when they were finished. He'd said nothing during the dispute, watching them not impassively but observantly, hawk-like, "Noveni has undoubtedly given our descriptions to the guards and on top of that, the Mages Guild will be hunting the encyclopedia. Caelan's shack is the first place they'll look."

There was no denying that. With nothing to pack, they left the city before the sun could rise, picking up Shadowmere from the stables. Even she couldn't carry three people, so Olyn walked on foot while the other two rode. Or at least, that was the arrangement for all of five minutes before Caelan started whining about motion sickness. So he walked. With Olyn. Clinging onto the man's arm with the desperation of the newly-blind.

Lucien was not happy.

Olyn was well aware that Lucien wasn't happy and therefore chose to rub it in as much as possible. Deliberately walking slowly so that Caelan would stay close, steadying him after each stumble with a touch to the wrist or chest. And then at one point, as they descended a steep slope on their path, he looped his arm around Caelan's narrow shoulders-

"Is that really necessary?" Lucien snapped at last, "I'm sure he's perfectly capable of getting down a hill by himself. Just because he's blind doesn't mean you need to treat him like a child."

"I'm simply providing support," Olyn answered without relenting his hold, "Nothing untoward about common courtesy is there, Caelan?" he was not looking at the Altmer as he said this, but staring straight at Lucien, mouth curled into the epitome of arrogance.

"_Uncommon_ courtesy, apparently," Caelan answered, ignorant of the smugness radiating off the man next to him. He stuck out his tongue childishly, but again got Lucien's position wrong and didn't crane his neck enough. The gesture ended up being directed at Shadowmere, who snorted.

"I offered to save you walking altogether, if you'll recall," Lucien shot back, eyes narrowed dangerously, although the effort was redundant, "If moving about is such a terrible struggle for you, you can get back on the horse."

"Yeah, so then I can be blind _and_ sick. No thanks."

"Then perhaps I should take a turn helping you while Olyn rides?" he asked faux-innocently, threading his fingers through Shadowmere's glossy mane. She was a horse to be admired and envied: exquisite beauty, exquisite speed, exquisite strength... exquisite kick if anyone other than Lucien tried to ride her.

Unfortunately, Olyn cottoned on to that last part; "I should think she'd throw me straight off. Not something you want to happen to the _only_ person who can help you resolve this mess... is it?" his smirk turned into a sneer.

Lucien sneered right back, "Presuming you _can_ resolve this, of course. I needn't tell you what happens if you prove to be of no use."

Olyn glanced away, admitting defeat, or so it seemed. But Lucien heard him mutter under his breath, "I'd like to see you try."

* * *

They came to an eventual halt at the Inn of Ill Omen. Lucien had always liked the name, but they chose it more for being quiet and unremarkable. They booked the two downstairs rooms under false names for a few days, since Olyn had everything he needed, and this was as good a place as any to start studying the encyclopedia. Without further ado, he disappeared into his room, leaving the other two to their privacy.

"Lucien," Caelan asked tentatively, groping at the air in search of the assassins' arm, "Can you guide me to the bed? Not much point looking around the place if I can't... er, you know."

Feeling a little cruel, Lucien deliberately stepped out of his reach, "Oh? But since I apparently have no _courtesy_, why would I choose to help you?"

"Aww, come on. You know I didn't mean anything by that."

"You could be a little more gracious. I did leave my sanctuary unsupervised and marched all across Cyrodil to lift a curse that _you_, might I add, brought entirely upon yourself," the words came out sharper than he had intended, "Bah, and people wonder why I'm selfish. Go out of your way to help people, all you get is disrespect."

Caelan visibly faltered, "I didn't think-"

"No, you didn't," he was cut off, "You rarely do."

A silence followed – guilty on Caelan's part, cold on Lucien's. The mer shuffled on the spot, keeping his gaze downwards.

"I'm – I'm sorry," he spoke at last. Lucien rolled his eyes, but Caelan continued before he could claim insincerity, "No-one's done anything for me on this scale before. On _any_ scale, really. Everyone either ignores or distrusts me."

"You lie and steal, Caelan. Of course they distrust you."

"Yeah, but I started lying and stealing so they would notice me. It just became habit after that," he pointed out, "But I still get overlooked. Even though I was the best pickpocket in the Thieves Guild, the best Conjurer in the Arcane University, one of Mannimarco's hand-picked students in the Necromancer cult, everyone just... shoos me away." He tugged on his sleeves nervously, twisting the worn and faded fabric between his fingers, "You're the first person to put up with me for this long. To act as though I'm worth the effort."

Lucien thought back to when he had first met the mer. It didn't bother him as much now, but back then there'd been times when he'd wanted to rip out Caelan's throat just to shut him up for five minutes. Truly, if he hadn't been forced to share his home with the boy, _he_ would've turned his back straight after meeting him too. Then somewhere along the way he'd gone from disliking his company to tolerating it, then accepting it, then sort-of-enjoying it, and now he dreaded being without it. But it made him wonder, if anyone else spent a prolonged period with Caelan, would they too become infatuated? And likewise, would Caelan adore anyone who gave him the time of day?

It was a question he couldn't leave unanswered: "Do you stay with me just for the attention?"

The High Elf fidgeted, "I'll – I'll admit, that was true at first. When you took me to Fort Farragut all those months ago – yeah I wanted to die, but – I stuck around mostly because I liked being fussed over. Even if it _was_ in the bloodiest sense possible."

Not quite the denial Lucien had hoped for. Still, Caelan had used past tense, so perhaps there was one to come yet. He waited patiently for him to continue.

"Then eventually I ended up liking _you_, not just your attention. I mean, you're seductive and eloquent and intellectual and all those things I can never be. I know _everyone_ goes for that sort of thing, but you're also wicked and vicious and really kinda scary sometimes. That's okay though, because I like that too."

"Truly?" he was well aware that he was a cruel man. Something he was unapologetic for, but he was used to hiding his darker streak from others, even the assassins he called family. Caelan had witnessed that side to him; he had his invincibility to thank for living to tell the tale, but even when physically impervious, most people would not be so undaunted. "Even though I enjoy inflicting pain on you?"

The elf waved a careless hand, "Oh, you know how I feel about _that._ I'm not just into masochism for your benefit, you know," he paused thoughtfully, "Although I didn't _really_ get into it until you came along. I used to just shrug it off, then I started to like it, now I _really_ like it. Strange, huh?"

To Lucien, not so much. Caelan was addicted to pain, he was addicted to the addict, the patterns mirroring each other. Which meant Caelan was equivalent to masochism... hmph, wasn't _that_ an analogy and a half.

"But, um, anyway. I didn't mean to sound ungrateful earlier. I didn't get the chance to say it before, but just for the record, thank you."

Lucien didn't respond. It wasn't as though he'd never been thanked before – he conversed with strangers, laid the flattery on thick, they thanked him coyly. He purred out a _you're quite welcome, my dear_ or something similar, and the ensuing flirty banter inevitably led to a skirmish between the sheets. After which he usually killed them, and enjoyed the post-coitus glow with a glass of fine wine until the body next to him had gone cold.

So 'thank you' wasn't alien to his ears. But of course, this was no light-hearted conversation intended to ensnare someone into being his evenings entertainment. This was a thank you for one of the very, very few kind things he had done in his life, even if the reasons were still steeped in selfishness. He wasn't entirely sure what to say.

But he needn't have worried about the magnitude of his next words. Caelan could be counted upon to spoil the moment, which he did most aptly when he cleared his throat and continued: "So... if you lead me to the bed, I can thank you _properly_..."

Seriousness abruptly discarded, a smirk tugged at his lips; "Was that you seducing me?"

"Yeah," came the sheepish but hopeful admittance, "Did it work?"

He gave a low, throaty laugh, pleased at the involuntary shudder it elicited. His smirk turned predatory as he prowled around the High Elf, silent and undetectable until he stood behind him. Caelan jumped as he felt Lucien's hands skim up his arms before resting on his shoulders – and then pushing him forwards, guiding him.

"Keep going..." he murmured, matching their steps so he pressed into Caelan's back. He broke away only when they had reached the bed, turning him so he could sit...

...And then forcing him further back as he crawled over him, feline in his movements. With nimble hands he undid the belt to the teal mage robes, tossing it idly aside, then tugged loose the layers of clothing to reveal soft golden skin beneath, like a fruit unpeeled. Caelan shuddered at the sensation of cold air against his suddenly-bare form, and shuddered more at the contrasting heat of Lucien's mouth as he traced the mer's shape with his lips and tongue. And yet, Lucien could detect a hint of frustration in the noises he made: "What is it?"

"Nothing, I just..." his hands curled and uncurled in visible agitation, creasing the bedsheets, "I wish I could see you. It's harder to participate when I can't... when I'm like this."

"Mm, not that difficult. You managed just fine before."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember that first time, in Anvil?"

Caelan recalled, and realised: "When you were invisible?"

"Exactly. Not quite the same as blindness, but close enough," he pulled back, allowing the other to sit upright, "I'll hold still, to make it easier for you."

Repeating his steps from last time, Caelan tentatively trailed his hands up Lucien's arms, his shoulders, his neck... sliding the hood of the assassin's robes back, he weaved his fingers through long, silky strands of hair and tried to visualise the exact colour from memory. But all that came to mind was that night back in Anvil, Lucien's chameleon spell: _feeling_ it, lustrous and tangible beneath his fingertips, but seeing only his hands twisting aimlessly in mid-air.

"This is so weird," he murmured, as the ghost of his past did the same. He trailed his hands back down, past a jaw rough with stubble until he found the man's lips, then guided himself into a kiss.

Lucien, meanwhile, was trying very hard to stay still. This was far more challenging then it should've been; he was a man of experience and expertise, for whom self-discipline was no great task, yet his fingers itched and twitched at the anticipation of it all. Memories surged as Caelan loosened his belt and pushed his robes back from his shoulders. He wished he had been less patient back in Anvil because he had to match it now, to re-live the moment.

Caelan stripped him of his gloves, "Your hands are still soft," he commented.

"You still bite your nails," Lucien countered easily, smirking despite Caelan being unable to see it.

But he must have sensed or predicted it, because he grinned back: "And you still smell of-" the smile faltered when he abruptly remembered that his nose didn't work anymore, "Well. I _assume_ you still smell of nightshade... Lucien, do you think I'll get my senses back, when all this is sorted out?"

"Perhaps. It might be too much to hope for, though."

In truth, he found himself fairly receptive of the notion. Certainly, intimacy was diminished without smell or taste, and the blindness meant Caelan needed constant help. But for that help he had to rely on Lucien, making him that much more co-dependent, therefore less likely – _unable_ – to stray. Much as he hated to admit it, there was a sore truth to Olyn's earlier claims that Caelan would eventually take his leave. He would, after all, stay youthful forever, whereas Lucien would age, wither, and die.

But if Caelan couldn't witness that process, he could only remember Lucien in his best years. Nor could he be lured away by another, for there were undoubtedly people who would _try._ People both as brutal and beautiful as he, eager for a plaything that offered cruelty without compromise nor consequence. Despite Caelan's claims, Lucien had the lingering insecurity that the mer would one day seek his attentions elsewhere, and he was entirely too selfish to let him go. So if he just, say... _suggested_ to Olyn that Caelan's sight need not be restored, it could ultimately turn out for the best.

Perhaps it was that thought, the idea of finally making the mer _his _in every way, that drove away the last of his self-control. His hands lashed out, grabbing ahold of Caelan's wrists, evoking a startled gasp, which turned to a moan as he pulled the boy towards him and did not so much kiss as _devour._ His thoughts were as aggressive as his actions, plotting and planning all the various ways he could make his lover reliant until independence became an impossibility.

He had once said that there was no way to keep Caelan chained, but chains didn't have to be physical.


End file.
